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And the rust on the sunburnt sod, That, ripe for the reaper, the barley Silvered the acres broad.
Then certain among the people,
While riot and hunt and horn
"Shall make of his sword a sickle,
Right sadly Saint Cuthbert listened;
As he lay on his rush-strewn bed, And strength for the morrow's scything, Till his fears and his sadness fled.
Then he dreamed that he saw descending
Who heaped in the low-eaved barn
LINN (LYN), THE RIVER.
In the cool of the crispy morning,
Arose from his place of rest; "For," he sighed, "I must toil till the gloaming Is graying the golden west."
He turned to look at his corn-land;
And the stubble stood thick in sight:
Linn (Lyn), the River.
Margaret J. Preston.
(Recollection of Homer.)
EVEN thus, methinks, in some Ionian isle,
Yielding his soul to unrecorded joy, Beside a fall like this, lingered awhile On briery banks that wondrous minstrel-boy; Long hours there came upon his vacant ear The rushing of the river, till strange dreams Fell on him, and his youthful spirit clear Was dwelt on by the power of voiceful streams. Thenceforth begun to grow upon his soul
The sound and force of waters; and he fed
HIS onward-deepening gloom; this hanging path
Hung with thick woods, the native haunt of deer
For opposite my crib, long years ago,
Were pictured just such rocks, just such a stream,
As when some sight calls back a half-forgotten dream.
THE MERSEY AND THE IRWELL.
SUGGESTED by a very curious and interesting model of the little town of Liverpool, as it existed in the earlier part of the last century.
CENTURY since the Mersey flowed
In the blue air no smoky cloud
Hung over wood and lea,
Where the old church with the fretted tower
And all along the eastern way
The grass grew quietly all the day,
And the pedler frightened the lambs at play
Where blended Irk and Irwell streamed
And Norman bows were bent,
A century since the pedler still
Might see the weekly markets fill
Since then a vast and filmy veil
Smoke, rising from a thousand fires,
And the England of our slow-paced sires
Yet man lives not by bread alone, –
The answer comes in a sudden moan
The human heart, which seemed so dead, Wakes with a sudden start;
To right and left we hear it said, "Nay; 't is a noble heart,” And the angels whisper overhead, "There's a new shrine in the mart!"