`O boy, tho' thou art young and proud,
I see the place where thou wilt lie.

`The sands and yeasty surges mix
In caves about the dreary bay,
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,
And in thy heart the scrawl shall play.'

`Fool,' he answer'd, `death is sure
To those that stay and those that roam,
But I will nevermore endure
To sit with empty hands at home.

`My mother clings about my neck,
My sisters crying "stay for shame;"
My father raves of death and wreck,
They are all to blame, they are all to blame.

`God help me! save I take my part
Of danger in the roaring sea,
A devil rises in my heart,
Far worse than any death to me.'



THE ISLET.
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`Whither O whither love shall we go,