F by thy banks, O gently winding stream,
No minstrel chords in ecstasy have rung;
Nor child of Art, in Inspiration's dream,
O'er thy glassed wave with airy pencil hung;
To one, at least, the quivering sallows pale,

And rustling sedge, and fields with king cups gay,
Which fringe thy course through many a low-browed vale,
(When Memory summons back life's long-past May),
Rise fraught with magic influence. Joy and peace

On thy green verge, mild flood, and waters be!
And when this hand, unstrung from toil, shall cease,
May hundreds still, in happy childhood free,

Taste the same sweets from cloudless youth's increase,
As I, when sporting once untired, by thee.

J. F. HOLLINGS.

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THE WAIL OF THE RIVER.

THE WAIL OF THE RIVER.

HAT saith the river to the rushes grey,

Cast

Rushes sadly bending,

River slowly wending?

Who can tell the whispered things they say?

Youth, and time, and manhood's prime,
For ever, ever fled away!

your withered garlands in the stream;

Low autumnal branches,

Round the skiff that launches,

Wavering downward through the lands of dream,

Ever, ever fled away!

This the burden, this the theme.

What saith the river to the rushes grey,

Rushes sadly bending,

River slowly wending?

It is near the closing of the day.

Near the night. Life and light

For ever, ever fled away!

Draw him tideward down; but not in haste.

Mouldering daylight lingers;

Night, with her cold fingers,

Sprinkles moonbeams on the dim sea-waste.

Ever, ever fled away!

Vainly cherished! vainly chased!

A RIVER IN FLOOD.

What saith the river to the rushes grey,

Rushes sadly bending,

River slowly wending,

Where in darkest glooms his bed we lay?

Up the cave moans the wave,

For ever, ever fled away!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

A RIVER IN FLOOD.

N their wild route from the mountains,
From the gorges, and the caves,
Where the deluge-forges slaver,

And the pent squall howls and raves ;

Where the fanged ravines are wrangling

With the furious torrent's force,

Till, like foaming serpents tangling,

They twist downward in their course.

Swallowing up the gorse in throatfuls,
Tugging at the rooted pines,
Shivering rocky cells asunder,

Where the gold-gnome sows his mines.

Ho! the headlong floods are coming,

Like to armied monsters free,

With their broken chains all foam-flecked,

As they rage on to the sea.

There, there where the land would lock them

In a foeman's strong embrace;

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56

A RIVER IN FLOOD.

Hark! how they roar with vengeance!
How they tear their bearded face!
How the huge rocks fly before them!
And the trees die on their breast,
Stretching out their limbs, all lifeless,
'Mid the yellow, mantling yeast.

And the marsh-bird tips the torrent,
But, with sudden, upward spring,
Flies the danger, drenched all over,
Barely saved by nervous wing.
Beds of leaves, like stately carpets,
Swim along the watery waste,
Breaking into bronzy fragments
In their heedless, hurrying haste;
Whilst the brute-flood loudly mutters,
In his armed waters, strong;
And, like distant victor-thunder,

Hums his hoarse, deep-chested song.

Vainly does the pale moon woo him,

And the clustering stars of night;

Heeds he naught the peerless lady,

Nor her sweet nymphs, fair and bright.

And he hates the doting willows,

As they fawn down at his feet,
With their long hair all dishevelled,
As they join his wave-men fleet.

For the flood is a barbarian—

Tawny, bearded, rude, and bold,

A RIVER IN FLOOD.

With a brawn as dark as iron,

And a heart as hard and cold; And he carries sword and cestus,

And, with body stark and bare, Ever gasping, calleth earthward, For a foe to do or dare.

And he dashes his huge form

Against bend, and bank, and keep;

And he loves to meet a barricade

And to clear it at a leap!

Or to sweep it with a cannonade,
All shotted close with foam,
And with a roar of victory

To charge it fiercely home!

Then, on again, all mane-tossed,
Till he meets the mighty sea;
But ah! then he proves a coward,
As such braggarts ever be.
And that trampler of the rivulet—
That roarer at the skies-
'Fore the waves of the great ocean,

Like a trembling dell-wind, cries.

And he yields his refted plunder,

And he cowers beneath the tide ;
And so, like a scourged oppressor,
He disgorges all his pride!
Till then the meanest, meaner,
And at his captor's beck,

He guides the foot that tramps him,
Mired and muddy, to his neck!

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