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Well hast thou guess'd: fortune is passing kind; She leads thee, fights for thee, and guards thy head From ev'ry foe-man's stroke.

Ay, but thy lover, Ella; was it not Of him we spoke?

Fye, do not mock me thus!

In truth he mocks thee, Ella, and no faith To fates foretold or mystic sages gives.

Believe him not, sweet maid. We seamen, truly, Small dealings have with learn'd sorcery; Nor bead, nor book, nor ring, nor mutter'd rhymes, Are for our turn: but on the sea-rock's point, In shape of hern, or gull, or carrion bird, Our unfeed wizards sit, and, with stretch'd throats, Speak strange mysterious things to wave-toss'd men, With many perils compass'd. Nay, oftimes The mermaid, seated on her coral stool, Spreading her yellow hair to the sunn'd breeze, Will sing a song of future fortunes fair To him who has the luck to meet with her: And ev'n the nightly winds will thro' our shrouds