Both for tiny, harmless minnow

And the fierce and sharp-toothed pike.

Merciful protectress, kindling
Into anger or disdain,

Many a captive hath she rescued,
Others saved from lingering pain.

Listen yet awhile, with patience

Hear the homely truths I tell,

She in Grasmere's old church-steeple Tolled this day the passing-bell.

Yes, the wild Girl of the mountains
To their echoes gave the sound,
Notice punctual as the minute,
Warning solemn and profound.

She, fulfilling her sire's office,
Rang alone the far-heard knell,
Tribute, by her hand, in sorrow,
Paid to One who loved her well.

When his spirit was departed,
On that service she went forth;
Nor will fail the like to render
When his corse is laid in earth.

What then wants the Child to temper, In her breast, unruly fire,

To control the froward impulse

And restrain the vague desire?

Easily a pious training

And a steadfast outward power

Would supplant the weeds, and cherish, In their stead, each opening flower.

Thus the fearless Lamb-deliverer,
Woman-grown, meek-hearted, sage,
May become a blest example
For her sex, of every age.

Watchful as a wheeling eagle,
Constant as a soaring lark,

Should the country need a heroine,

She might prove our Maid of Arc.

Leave that thought; and here be uttered
Prayer that Grace divine may raise
Her humane, courageous spirit

Up to heaven, through peaceful ways.

POMES FOUNDED ON THE AFFEC

TIONS.

I.

THE BROTHERS.

"THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live

A profitable life: some glance along,
Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbor's corn.

But, for that moping Son of Idleness,

Why can he tarry yonder? - In our church-yard Is neither epitaph nor monument,

— only the turf we tread

Tombstone nor name,
And a few natural graves."

To Jane, his wife,

Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.

It was a July evening; and he sat

Upon the long stone seat beneath the eaves
Of his old cottage, as it chanced, that day,
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone
His wife sat near him, teasing matted wool,
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering
wire,

He fed the spindle of his youngest child,
Who, in the open air, with due accord

Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps,

Her large, round wheel was turning. Towards the

field

In which the Parish Chapel stood alone,

Girt round with a bare ring of
mossy wall,
While half an hour went by, the Priest had sent
Many a long look of wonder: and at last,
Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge
Of carded wool which the old man had piled
He laid his implements with gentle care,
Each in the other locked; and down the path
That from his cottage to the churchyard led
He took his way, impatient to accost

The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there.

'T was one well known to him in former days, A Shepherd-lad; who ere his sixteenth year Had left that calling, tempted to intrust His expectations to the fickle winds And perilous waters; with the mariners A fellow-mariner; and so had fared

Through twenty seasons; but he had been reared
Among the mountains, and he in his heart
Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas.
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds

Of caves and trees: - and, when the regular wind
Between the tropics filled the steady sail,

And blew with the same breath through days and weeks,

Lengthening invisibly its weary line

Along the cloudless main, he, in those hours
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze;
And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought
In union with the employment of his heart,
He, thus by feverish passion overcome,
Even with the organs of his bodily eye,

Below him, in the bosom of the deep,

Saw mountains; saw the forms of sheep that grazed

On verdant hills, with dwellings among trees,
And shepherds clad in the same country gray
Which he himself had worn."
*

And now, at last,

From perils manifold, with some small wealth

*This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the Hurricane.