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ATHERSTONE-HOUGHTON.

75

Put on a face of gladness; every tree To feel nor arch nor tent, nor anything Shook his green leaves in joy; the meadows But that pure heaven's eternal covering. laughed;

[beams, The deep glen, where it caught the amber It is one broad saloon, one gorgeous hall ; Began to draw its misty veil aside, (tears; A chamber where a multitude, all kings, And smile and glisten through its pearly May hold full audience, splendid festival, The birds struck up their chorus; the young Or Piety's most prosperous minist'rings: lambs

[lived Thus be its height unmarred-thus be it all Scoured over hill and meadow ;-all that One mighty room, whose form direct Looked like a new creation, over-filled

upsprings With health and joy; nay, e'en the inani. To the o'erarching sky: it is right good mate earth

When Art and Nature keep such brotherSeemed coming into life.

hood.

But glorious far Beyond all else the mighty god of light For where, upon the firmest sodden land, Mounting the crystal firmament; no eye Was ever monarch's power and toil of May look upon his overwhelming pomp: slaves

[land Power and majesty attend his steps, Equalled the works of that self-governed Ocean and earth adoring gaze on him: Who fixed the Delos of the Adrian waves? In lone magnificence he takes his way Planting upon these strips of yielding sand Through the bright solitude of heaven. A Temple of the Beautiful, which braves

The sea The jealous stroke of ocean, nor yet fears Was clear and purely blue, save the broad The far more perilous sea “whose waves path

are years. Where the sunbeams danced on the heaving billows,

Walk in St. Mark's again, some few hours That seemed a high-road, paved with atom after, suns,

When a bright sleep is on each storied Where, on celestial errands, to and fro

pile, "Tween heaven and earth might gods or When fitful music and inconstant laughter angels walk.

Give place to Nature's silent moonlight

smile; Now Fancy wants no fairy gale to waft her To Magian haunt or charm-engirdled

isle: LORD HOUGHTON.

All too content, in passive bliss, to see

This show divine of visible poetry.
ON VENICE.

On such a night as this, impassionedly WALK in St. Mark's, the time, the ample The old Venetian sang these verses rare: space,

That Venice must of needs eternal be, Lies in the freshness of the evening shade, For heaven had looked through the When, on each side, with gravely-darkened pellucid air, face,

And cast its reflex on the crystal seaThe masses rise above the light arcade; AndVenice was the image pictured there." Walk down the midst with slowly timèd I hear them now, and tremble, for I seem pace,

As treading on an unsubstantial dream. But gay withal, for there is high parade Of fair attire, and fairer forms, which pass Who talks of vanished glory, of dead power, Like varying groups on a magician's glass. Of things that were and are not? Is he

here? From broad illumined chambers far within, Can he take in the glory of this hour,

Or under curtains daintily outspread, And call it all the decking of a bier ? Music, and laugh, and talk-the motley din No; surely as on that Titanic tower Of all who from sad thought or toil are The Guardian Angel stands in ether clear, sped,

With the moon's silver tempering his gold Here a chance hour of social joy to win

wing, Gushforth; but I love best above my head | So Venice lives, as lives no other thing:

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“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
Farre away I heard her song,
“Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
Where the reedy Lindis floweth,

Floweth, floweth,
From the meads where melick groweth
Faintly came her milking song,
“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling,
" For the dews will soone be falling :
Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Light-
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, [foot,

Hollow, hollow:
Come uppe, Jetty, rise and follow,

From the clovers lift your head, [foot, Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, LightCome uppe, Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking-shed.' If it be long, ay, long ago,

When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrow sharpe and strong;
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good miles away

The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country-side That Saturday at eventide. The swanherds where their sedges are

Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
The shepherde lads I heard affarre,

And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
Till floating o'er the grassy sea
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The " Brides of Mavis Enderby.
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;

JEAN INGELOW.

THE HIGH TIDE. (ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, 1571.) The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,

The ringers ran by two, by three: “Pull, if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he: Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells !

Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe, 'The Brides of Enderby.' Men say it was a stolen tyde

The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide

The message that the bells let fall : And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied

By millions crouched on the old sea wall.

I sat and spun within the doore,

My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes: The level sun, like ruddy ore,

Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

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But while the west bin red to sce,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?”
I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Cameriding 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

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 lea, 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 noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.

A lurid mark and dread to see ;
And awsome bells they were to mee
That in the dark rang " Enderby."
They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I--my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "Oh, come in life, or come in death! Oh, lost ! my love, Elizabeth!" 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. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. That flow stretched wrecks about the grass,

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

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

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And rearing Lindis, backward pressed,

Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and Then beaten foam flew round aboutThen all the mighty floods were out! So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet; The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea!

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.
Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans

That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall,”-
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound
Full galloping; nor bridle drew

Untill he reached the mound.

Upon the roofe we sate that night,

The noise of bells went sweeping by; I marked the lofty beacon-light Stream from the church tower, red and

high

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect, (So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

Were the promises divine

That were passed along the line,
As they gathered in their myriads ere the

dawn;
While their priests in full accord

Chanted glory to the Lord,
And blessed the Russian banner and the

sword for battle drawn.

"Well,"cried he,"Emperor by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon !
The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his wings

Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The Chief's eye flashed;

his plans Soared up again like fire. The Chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes: You're wounded!” “Nay," his soldier's

pride Touched to the quick, he said: “I'm killed, Sire!" "And, his Chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead.

Stealthily and darkly,

'Mid the rain and sleet;
No trumpet-call resounding,

Nor drum's tempestuous beat-
But shadow-like and slow,
Came the legions of the foe,
Moving dimly up the steep

Where the British camp, asleep, Layunconscious of the danger lurking near;

And the soldier breathing hard,

On the cold and sodden sward, Dreamed of victory and glory, or of home

and England dear.
Hark! heard ye not a rumbling

On the misty morning air,
Like the rush of rising tempests

When they shake the forest bare?
The outposts on the hill
Hear it close, and closer still.
'Tis the tramp of iron heels,

'Tis the crash of cannon-wheels, And“To arms!" "To arms!" "To arms!"

:0:

is the cry:

CHARLES MACKAY.

“'Tis the Russians on our flank!

Up, and arm each British rank! And meet them, gallant Guardsmen, to

conquer or to die."

INKERMANN. 1854.

SEBASTOPOL lay shrouded

In thick November gloom,
And through the midnight silence

The guns had ceased to boom.
The sentinel outworn
In watching for the morn,
From Balaclava's heights

Beheld the Russian lights,
In the close-beleagured fortress far adown;

And heard a sound of bells

Wafted upwards through the dells, And a roar of mingling voices and of an.

thems from the town.

Then rose the loud alarum

With a hurricane of sound,
And from short uneasy slumber

Sprang each hero from the ground;
Sprang each horseman to his steed,
Ready saddled for his need;
Sprang each soldier to his place,

With a stern, determined face; [far, While the rousing drum and bugle echoed

And the crack of rifles rung,

And the cannon found a tongue, As down upon them bursting came the

avalanche of war!

They prayed the God of Justice

To aid them in the wrong, They consecrated Murder

With jubilee and song.. To the slain, the joys of heaven, To the living, sin forgiven,

Through the cold and foggy darkness

Sped the rocket's fiery breath, And the light of rapid volleys,

In a haze of Living Death; But each British heart that day Throbbed impetuous for the fray

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