And ye hoist the mainsail brown,
As over the deep-sea roll
The lurker follows the shoal;
To follow and to follow, in the moonshine silver-clear,
When the halyards creek to thy dipping sail, Pentruan of Porthmeor!

And wailing, and complaining, and whistling whisht and clear,
The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor!
It was not in the morning, nor the noonday's golden grace,--
It was in the fearsome midnight, when the tide-dogs
yelped in the Race:
The tide swings round in the Race, and they're whistling
whisht and low,
And they come from the lonely heather, where the fur-edged fox-gloves
blow,
And the moor-grass sways to and fro,
Where the yellow moor-birds sigh,
And the sea-cooled wind sweeps by.
Canst hear the curlew's whistle through the darkness
wild and drear,--
How they're calling, calling, calling, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

THE VICTOR: THEODOSIA GARRISON

_The live man victorious_
_Rode spurring from the fight;_
_In a glad voice and glorious_
_He sang of his delight,_
_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_
_Came after in the night._

And one laid hand on his bridle-rein--
Swift as the steed he sped--
"O, ride you fast, yet at the last,
Hate faster rides," he said.
"My sons shall know their father's foe
One day when blades are red."

And one laid hand on his stirrup-bar
Like touch o' driven mist,
"For joy you slew ere joy I knew,
For one girl's mouth unkissed,
At your board's head, at mass, at bed,
My pale ghost shall persist."

And one laid hands on his own two hands,
"O Brother o' mine," quoth he,
"What can I give to you who live
Like gift you gave to me?
Since from grief and strife and ache o' life
Your sword-stroke set me free."

_The live man victorious_
_Rode spurring from the fight;_
_In a glad voice and glorious_
_He sang of his delight,_
_And dead men three, foot-loose and free,_
_Came after in the night._

MAWGAN OF MELHUACH: ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER

'Twas a fierce night when old Mawgan died:
Men shuddered to hear the rolling tide:
The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore,
They had heard strange voices amid the roar.

"Out with the boat there," someone cried,--
"Will he never come? We shall lose the tide:
His berth is trim and his cabin stored,
He's a weary long time coming aboard."

The old man struggled upon the bed:
He knew the