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On ocean and earth I'm a goodly thing,
I serve from the play-ground to the grave.
I have many a place in the busy world,

Of triumph and fear, of sorrow and joy ; I carry the freeman's flag unfurled,

And am linked to childhood's darling toy: Then scatter me wide, and hackle me well, And a varied tale shall the hempseed tell.

Charles Kingsley.


LEAR and cool, clear and cool,

By laughing shallow and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle, and foaming wear;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoke-grimed town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,

By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Darker and darker the further I go, Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,
The floodgates are open, away to the sea.
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,

As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.

Undefiled, for the undefiled,

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Alexander Smith.


(FROM A LIFE-Drama).

IN Winter, when the dismal rain
Came down in slanting lines,

And Wind, that grand old harper, smote
His thunder-harp of pines,

A Poet sat in his antique room,
His lamp the valley kinged,
'Neath dry crusts of dead tongues he found
Truth, fresh and golden-winged.

When violets came and woods were green,
And larks did skyward dart,
A Love alit and white did sit,
Like an angel on his heart.

From his heart he unclasped his love
Amid the trembling trees,
And sent it to the Lady Blanche
On winged poesies.

The Lady Blanche was saintly fair,
Nor proud, but meek her look;
In her hazel eyes her thoughts lay clear
As pebbles in a brook.

Her father's veins ran noble blood,
His hall rose 'mid the trees;
Like a sunbeam she came and went
'Mong the white cottages.

The peasants thanked her with their tears, When food and clothes were given,— "This is a joy," the Lady said,

"Saints cannot taste in Heaven!"

They met the Poet told his love,

His hopes, despairs, his pains,— The Lady with her calm eyes mocked The tumult in his veins.

He passed away—a fierce song leapt
From cloud of his despair,

As lightning, like a bright, wild beast
Leaps from its thunder-lair.

He poured his frenzy forth in song,—
Bright heir of tears and praises!

Now resteth that unquiet heart
Beneath the quiet daisies.

The world is old,-Oh! very old,—
The wild winds weep and rave;
The world is old, and gray, and cold,
Let it drop into its grave!

Jean Ingelow.



HE 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! Ply all your changes, all your swells,


Play uppe The Brides of Enderby.'

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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 naught 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 heath
She moved where Lindis wandereth,
My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.

“Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews were falling,
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 Lightfoot;
Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, aye, long ago,

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

Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire it seemeth mee

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