Nun's Well, THE cattle crowding round this beverage clear
Brigham To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod
The encircling turf into a barren clod;

Through which the waters creep, then disappear,
Born to be lost in Derwent flowing near;
Yet o'er the brink, and round the limestone-cell
Of the pure spring (they call it the "Nun's Well,"
Name that first struck by chance my startled ear)
A tender Spirit broods-the pensive Shade
Of ritual honours to this Fountain paid
By hooded Votaresses with saintly cheer!
Albeit oft the Virgin-mother mild
Looked down with pity upon eyes beguiled
Into the shedding of "too soft a tear.'

To his Son, PASTOR and Patriot !- ―at whose bidding rise John Words- These modest walls, amid a flock that need, worth, then For one who comes to watch them and to feed, building a parsonage A fixed Abode--keep down presageful sighs. at Brigham Threats, which the unthinking only can despise, Perplex the Church; but be thou firm,-be true To thy first hope, and this good work pursue, Poor as thou art. A welcome sacrifice Dost Thou prepare, whose sign will be the smoke Of thy new hearth; and sooner shall its wreaths, Mounting while earth her morning incense breathes, From wandering fiends of air receive a yoke, And straightway cease to aspire, than God disdain This humble tribute as ill-timed or vain.

;

DEAR to the Loves, and to the Graces vowed,
The Queen drew back the wimple that she wore
And to the throng that on the Cumbrian shore
Her landing hailed, how touchingly she bowed!
And like a Star (that, from a heavy cloud
Of pine-tree foliage poised in air, forth darts,
When a soft summer gale at evening parts
The gloom that did its loveliness enshroud)
She smiled; but Time, the old Saturnian Seer,
Sighed on the wing as her foot pressed the strand,
With step prelusive to a long array

Mary Queen of Scots

landing at Workington

Of woes and degradations hand in hand—

Weeping captivity, and shuddering fear

Stilled by the ensanguined block of Fotheringay!

RANGING the heights of Scawfell or Black-comb, In the

In his lone course the Shepherd oft will

pause,

And strive to fathom the mysterious laws

Channel

between Cumberland

By which the clouds, arrayed in light or gloom, and Man

On Mona settle, and the shapes assume

Of all her peaks and ridges. What he draws
From sense, faith, reason, fancy, of the cause,
He will take with him to the silent tomb.
Or by his fire, a child upon his knee,
Haply the untaught Philosopher may speak
Of the strange sight, nor hide his theory
That satisfies the simple and the meek,
Blest in their pious ignorance, though weak
To cope with Sages undevoutly free.

At Sea, off BOLD words affirmed, in days when faith was strong the Isle of And doubts and scruples seldom teazed the brain, Man That no adventurer's bark had power to gain

These shores if he approached them bent on wrong;
For, suddenly up-conjured from the Main,
Mists rose to hide the Land-that search, though
long

And eager, might be still pursued in vain.
O Fancy, what an age was that for song!
That age, when not by laws inanimate,
As men believed, the waters were impelled,
The air controlled, the stars their courses held;
But element and orb on acts did wait

Of Powers endued with visible form, instinct
With will, and to their work by passion linked.

Science still DESIRE we past illusions to recall?
crossed by To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide
Mystery Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn aside?
No, let this age, high as she may, instal

In her esteem the thirst that wrought man's fall,
The universe is infinitely wide;

And conquering Reason, if self-glorified,

Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall
Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone,
Imaginative Faith! canst overleap,

In progress toward the fount of Love,—the throne
Of Power whose ministers the records keep
Of periods fixed, and laws established, less
Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness.

THE feudal Keep, the bastions of Cohorn,
Even when they rose to check or to repel
Tides of aggresive war, oft served as well
Greedy ambition, armed to treat with scorn
Just limits; but yon Tower, whose smiles adorn
This perilous bay, stands clear of all offence;
Blest work it is of love and innocence,
A Tower of refuge built for the else forlorn.
Spare it, ye waves, and lift the mariner,
Struggling for life, into its saving arms!
Spare, too, the human helpers! Do they stir
'Mid your fierce shock like men afraid to die?
No; their dread service nerves the heart it warms,
And they are led by noble HILLARY.

ww

WHY stand we gazing on the sparkling Brine,
With wonder smit by its transparency,
And all-enraptured with its purity?—
Because the unstained, the clear, the crystalline,
Have ever in them something of benign;
Whether in gem, in water, or in sky,
A sleeping infant's brow, or wakeful eye
Of a young maiden, only not divine.
Scarcely the hand forbears to dip its palm
For beverage drawn as from a mountain-well.
Temptation centres in the liquid Calm ;
Our daily raiment seems no obstacle
To instantaneous plunging in, deep Sea!
And revelling in long embrace with thee.

On entering
Douglas
Bay, Isle
of Man

By the SeaShore, Isle of Man

Isle of Man A YOUTH too certain of his power to wade
On the smooth bottom of this clear bright sea,
To sight so shallow, with a bather's glee,
Leapt from this rock, and but for timely aid
He, by the alluring element betrayed,

Had perished. Then might Sea-nymphs (and
with sighs

Of self-reproach) have chanted elegies

Bewailing his sad fate, when he was laid

In peaceful earth: for, doubtless, he was frank,
Utterly in himself devoid of guile;

Knew not the double-dealing of a smile
Nor aught that makes men's promises a blank,
Or deadly snare: and He survives to bless
The Power that saved him in his strange distress.

-www

Isle of Man DID pangs of grief for lenient time too keen, Grief that devouring waves had caused-or guilt Which they had witnessed, sway the man who built This Homestead, placed where nothing could be

seen,

Nought heard, of ocean troubled or serene?
A tired Ship-soldier on paternal land,
That o'er the channel holds august command,
The dwelling raised,—a veteran Marine.
He, in disgust, turned from the neighbouring sea
To shun the memory of a listless life
That hung between two callings. May no strife
More hurtful here beset him, doomed though free,
Self-doomed, to worse inaction, till his eye
Shrink from the daily sight of earth and sky!