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HOW THE WATER COMES

DOWN AT LODORE.

HERE it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling.
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along conflicting strong;
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting

Around and around;
Collecting, disjecting,

With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in,
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its
sound.

Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And brightening and whitening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and flittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,

And thundering and floundering, And falling and crawling and sprawling,

And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,

And sounding and bounding and rounding,

And bubbling and troubling and
doubling,

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And grumbling and rumbling and
tumbling,

And clattering and battering and
shattering,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,

Retreating and meeting and beating and sheeting,

Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,

And so never ending but always descending,

Sounds and motions for ever and ever

are blending;

All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,

And in this way the water comes down at Lodore.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

The few locks that are left you are

gray;

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On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,

And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,

The Mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd
round,

And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbro-
thok."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the bell, with a gurgling sound,

The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter
soon,

For there is the dawn of the rising moon."

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CAROLINE BOWLES

(MRS. SOUTHEY).

1786-1854.

[MRS. SOUTHEY, a popular poetess, and wife of the Poet Laureate, was the only child of Captain Charles Bowles of Buchland, near Lymington. For more than twenty years her writings were published anonymously. Among the friends who had been attracted to her by her genius, were the poets Southey and Bowles, the former of whom became her husband in 1839. On his death, Mrs. Southey was given a pension of £200 a year. Her principal works are Ellen Fitz Arthur, 2 Poem; The Widow's Tale, and other poems; Solitary Hours, prose and verse; Chapters on Churchyards; Tales of the Factories; and Robin Hood, with other poems.]

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