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JEAN INGELOW.

Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie,

And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, "And why should this thing be,

What danger lowers by land or sea?
They ring the tune of Enderby!

"For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys warping down;
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
They have not spared to wake the
towne;

But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring The Brides of Enderby'?”

I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main,

He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again, “Elizabeth! Elizabeth!'

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea-wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne

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Go sailing uppe the market-place.' He shook as one that looks on death: "God save you, mother!" straight he saith;

"Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long;

And ere yon bells beganne to play

Afar I heard her milking song.' He looked across the grassy sea, To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" They rang, "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast; For lo along the river's bed

A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noise, loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

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And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;

The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear. The pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith). And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
"Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
"Cusha, Cusha!" all along,
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth;

From the meads where melick groweth,

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Here's two bonny boys, and here's I pray you hear my song of a boat,

mother's own lasses,

Eager to gather them all.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedgesparrow,

That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;

Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the house be but narrow," Sing once, and sing it again.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups! Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her prow.

O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,

Maybe he thinks on you now.

For it is but short:

My boat you shall find none fairer afloat,

In river or port.

Long I looked out for the lad she bore,
On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sailed to the heavenly
shore,

For he came not back to me

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THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own,
Ah, happy, happy I!
Right dearly I loved them; but when
they were grown.

They spread out their wings to fly.
O, one after one they flew away,
Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,
And I wish I was going too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to

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AFTER THE RAIN.

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THE rain has ceased, and in my room
The sunshine pours an airy flood;
And on the church's dizzy vane
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood.

From out the dripping ivy-leaves, Antiquely carven, gray and high, A dormer, facing westward, looks Upon the village like an eye:

And now it glimmers in the sun, A square of gold, a disk, a speck: And in the belfry sits a Dove With purple ripples on her neck.

PISCATAQUA RIVER.

THOU singest by the gleaming isles, By woods, and fields of corn, Thou singest, and the heaven smiles Upon my birthday morn.

But I within a city, I,

So full of vague unrest, Would almost give my life to lie An hour upon thy breast!

To let the wherry listless go, And, wrapt in dreamy joy, Dip, and surge idly to and fro, Like the red harbor-buoy ;

To sit in happy indolence,

To rest upon the oars, And catch the heavy earthy scents That blow from summer shores;

To see the rounded sun go down,
And with its parting fires
Light up the windows of the town
And burn the tapering spires ;

And then to hear the muffled tolls
From steeples slim and white,
And watch, among the Isles of Shoals,
The Beacon's orange light.

O River! flowing to the main

Through woods, and fields of corn,

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E. C. STEDMAN.

Rhyme, ring! chime, sing! pleasant Sab

bath bells!

Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields and fells!

E. C. STEDMAN.

[U. s. A.]

THE DOORSTEP.

THE Conference-meeting through at last,
We boys around the vestry waited
To see the girls come tripping past,
Like snowbirds willing to be mated.

Not braver he that leaps the wall

By level musket-flashes litten, Than 1, who stepped before them all, Who longed to see me get the mitten.

But no; she blushed, and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward the Maple Farm

Along a kind of lover's by-way.

I can't remember what we said,

'T was nothing worth a song or story, Yet that rude path by which we sped Seemed all transformed, and in a glory.

The snow was crisp beneath our feet, The moon was full, the fields were gleaming;

By hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was beaming.

The little hand outside her muff—
O sculptor, if you could but mould it!--
So lightly touched my jacket-cuff,

To keep it warm I had to hold it.

To have her with me there alone, --'" was love and fear and triumph blended.

A last we reached the foot-worn stone Where that delicious journey ended.

The old folks, too, were almost home; Her dimpled hand the latches fingered, We heard the voices nearer come,

Yet on the doorstep still we lingered.

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Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled

From Trinity's undaunted steeple ;—

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
Sound high above the modern clamor,
Above the cries of greed and gain,
The curbstone war, the auction's ham-
mer,-

And swift, on Music's misty ways,

It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it stilled the multitude,
And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,
I saw the minstrel where he stood
At ease against a Doric pillar:
One hand a droning organ played,
The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned
Like those of old) to lips that made
The reeds give out that strain impas
sioned.

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