Her apron dy'd in grain, is blue, I trowe,

As is the hare-bell that adorns the field;

And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield

Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd,

And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd and chastisement unkind.

Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet portray'd,
The childish faces of old Eol's train;
Libs, Notus, Auster; these in frowns array'd,
How then would fare on earth, or sky, or main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,

The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
Where comely peace of mind and decent order dwell.
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;

'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;

And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around,
Through pious awe did term it passing rare;

For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground!

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt the truth,

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;

Goody, good-woman, n'aunt, forsooth,

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear;

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere;
For never title yet so mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind that did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,

Into her school, begirt with chickens, came!
Such favor did her past deportment claim;

And if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same,
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest erumb she found.

Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak, That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew; Where no vain flower disclos'd a gaudy streak; But herbs for use and physic not a few, Of grey renown, within those borders grew; The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue; The lowly gill, that never dares to climb; And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,

That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ;
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue;

And plantain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound;
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found;
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be erewhile in arid bundles bound,

To lurk amid the labours of her loom,

And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume.

And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer,

Ere, driven from its envied site, it found,

A sacred shelter for its branches here;
Where edged with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Oh wassel days! O customs meet and well !
Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere;
Simplicity then sought this humble cell,

Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete
If winter 'twere, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat;
Sweet melody! to hear her then repeat

How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All for the nonce, untuning every string,
Uphung their useless lyres-small heart had they to sing.
For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed;
And in those elfin ears would oft deplore

The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,
And tortuous Death was true Devotion's meed;
And simple Faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed;

And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn ; Ah, dearest Lord, forefend thilk days should e'er return!

In elbow-chair, like that of Scottish stem

By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd,
In which, when he receives his diadem,

Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac'd,
The matron sate, and some with rank she grac'd,
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride!)
Redress'd affronts, for vile affronts there pass'd;

And warn'd them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.

Right well she knew each temper to descry;
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise;
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,

And some entice with pittance small of praise;
And other some with baleful sprig she frays;

E'en absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways;
Forewarn'd if little bird their pranks behold,
"Twill whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.

Lo! now with state she utters the command;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair;
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn securèd are,
To save from fingers wet the letters fair;

The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
St. George's high achievements doth declare;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod-unpleasing sight, I ween!

Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star! it irks me while I write;
As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,
Oft as he told of deadly, dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite.

For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight!
And down they drop; appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.

O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
His little sister doth his peril see;
All playful as she sate, she grows demure;
She finds full soon her wonted spirits flee;

ye friends of the dead. Close it not till Colma come. My life flies away like a dream; why should I stay behind? Here shall I rest with my friends, by the stream of the sounding rock. When night comes on the hill; when the loud winds arise, my ghost shall stand in the blast, and mourn the death of my friends. The hunter shall hear from his booth. He shall fear but love my voice! For sweet shall my voice be for my friends pleasant were her friends to Colma!

JAMES MACPHERSON, 1788-1796.

SONG.

FROM "CYNTHIA'S REVELS."

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;

Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs!

List to the heavy part the music bears;

Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers,

Fall grief in showers-
Our beauties are not ours.
OI could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since summer's pride is now a withered daffodil.

BEN JONSON, 1574-1637.

LINES.

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee;"

The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam,

And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er, and o'er the sand,

And 'round, and 'round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land,
And never home came she.

"O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—

A tress o' golden hair

O' drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes on Dee!"

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea.

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.

C. KINGSLEY.

LETTER OF ST. BASIL, DESCRIBING HIS HER

MITAGE.

TO ST. GREGORY NAZIANZEN.

I believe I may at last flatter myself with having found the end of my wanderings. The hopes of being united with thee-or, I should rather say, my dreams, for hopes have been justly termed the waking dreams of men-have remained unfulfilled. God has suffered me to find a place, such as has often flitted before our imaginations; for that which fancy has shown us from afar is now made manifest to me. A high mountain, clothed with thick woods, is watered to the north by fresh and everflowing streams. At its foot lies an extended plain, rendered fruitful by the vapors with which it is moistened. The surrounding forest crowded with trees of different kinds, incloses one as in a strong fortress. This wilderness is bounded by two deep ravines; on the one side the river, rushing in foam down the mountain, forms an almost impassable barrier, while on the other all access is impeded by a broad mountain-ridge. My hut is so situated on the summit of the mountain, that I can overlook the whole plain, and follow throughout its course the Iris, which is more beautiful, and has a more abundant body of water than the Strymon, near Amphipolis. The river of my wilderness, which is more impetuous than any other that I know of, breaks against the jutting rock, and throws itself foaming into the abyss below-an object of admiration to the mountain wanderer, and a source of profit to the natives from the numerous fishes that are found in its waters. Shall I describe to thee the fructifying vapors that rise from the moist earth, or the cool breezes wafted over the rippled face of the waters? Shall I speak of the sweet song of the birds, or of the rich luxuriance of the flowering plants? What charms me beyond all else is the calm repose of the spot. It is only visited occasionally by huntsmen; for my wilderness nourishes herds of deer and wild goats, but not bears and wolves.