Cabined securely there.
Where round their fingers winding the white slips
That crown his forehead, on the grandsire’s knees,
Sit merry children, teasing about ships
Lost in the perilous seas;
Or listening with a troublous joy, yet deep,
To stories about battles, or of storms,
Till weary grown, and drowsing into sleep,
Slide they from out his arms.
Where, by the log-heap fire,