Are there buds on our willow-tree?

Buds and birds on our trysting-tree? Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !

Have you met the honey-bee, Circling upon rapid wing,

Round the angler's trysting-tree? Up, sweet thrushes, up and see ! Are there bees at our willow-tree ? Birds and bees at the trysting-tree ?

Where, in a brook,
With a hook,
Or a lake,
Fish we take ;
There we sit,

For a bit,
Till we fish entangle.

Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !

Are the fountains gushing free ?
Is the south-wind wandering

Through the angler's trysting-tree ?
Up, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Is there wind up our willow-tree ?

Wind or calm at our trysting-tree ?
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing !

Wile us with a merry glee;
To the flowery haunts of spring,

To the angler's trysting-tree.
Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me!
Are there flowers 'neath our willow-tree?
Spring and flowers at the trysting-tree?

We have gentles in a horn,

We have paste and worms too ; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too;

None do here
Use to swear :
Oaths do fray
Fish away ;
We sit still,

Watch our quill :
Fishers must not wrangle.

THOMAS TOD STODDART.

If the sun's excessive heat

Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter ;

Where, in a dike,
Perch or pike,
Roach or dace,
We do chase,
Bleak or gudgeon,

Without grudging ;
We are still contented.

Or we sometimes pass an hour

Under a green willow,
That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow;

Where we may
Think and pray,
Before death
Stops our breath ;
Other joys

Are but toys,
And to be lamented.

JOHN CHALKHILL.

Lawful is;
For our skill

Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.
In a morning, up we rise,

Ere Aurora's peeping ;
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
Leave the sluggard sleeping;

Then we go
To and fro,
With our knacks
At our backs,
To such streams

As the Thames,
If we have the leisure.

VERSES IN PRAISE OF ANGLING.

When we please to walk abroad

For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,

Full of delectation,

QUIVERING fears, heart-tearing cares,
Anxious sighs, untimely tears,

Fly, fly to courts,

Fly to fond worldlings' sports,
Where strained sardonic smiles are glosing still,
And grief is forced to laugh against her will,

Where mirth's but mummery,
And sorrows only real be.

rose from le untouched sleep

her soft brown hair,

The stav of love more shines alone,

Cool zephys crisp the sea;
Among the lecwed the wind-hap

Va serenade for thee.

Ted Morris

.

NORHAM CASTLE.

[The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently called Ubbanford) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the boundary between Eng. land and Scotland. The extent of its ruins, as well as its historical importance, shows it to have been a place of magnificence as well as strength. Edward I. resided there when he was created umpire of the dispute concerning the Scottish succession. It was repeatedly taken and retaken during the wars between England and Scotland, and, in leed, scarce any happened in which it had not a principal share. Norham Castle is situated on a steep bank. which overhangs the river. The ruins of the castle are at present considerable, as well as picturesque. They consist of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, and fragnients of other edifices, enclosed within an outward wall of great circuit.)

A horseman, darting from the crowd,
Like lightning from a summer cloud,
Spurs on his mettled courser proud

Before the dark array.
Beneath the sable palisade,
That closed the castle barricade,

His bugle-horn he blew ;
The warder hasted from the wall,
And warned the captain in the hall,

For well the blast he knew ; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, equire, and seneschal.

Day set on Norham's castled steep,
And Tweeil's fair river, broad and deep,

And Cheviot's mountains lone :
The battled towers, the donjon keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow lustre shone.
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,

Seemed forms of giant height;
Their armor, as it caught the rays,
Flashed back again the western blaze,

In lines of dazzling light.

“Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,

Bring pasties of the doe,
And quickly make the entrance free,
And bid my heralds ready be,
And every minstrel sound his glee,

And all our trumpets blow;
And, from the platform, spare ye not
To fire a noble salvo-shot :

Lord Marmion waits below." Then to the castle's lower ward

Sped forty yeomen tall, The iron-studded gates un barred, Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, The lofty palisade unsparred,

And let the drawbridge fall.

St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray

Less bright, and less, was flung; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower,

So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search,

The castle gates were barrel ; Above the gloomy portal arch, Timing his footsteps to a march,

The warder kept his giard ; Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient Border gathering-song.

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode,
Proudly his red-roan charger trode,
His helm hung at the saddle-bow ;
Well by his visage you might know
He was a stalworth knight, and keen,
And had in many a battle been.
The scar on his brown cheek revealed
A token true of Bosworth field ;
His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
Showed spirit proud, and prompt to ire.
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
Did deep design and counsel speak.
His forehead, by his casqne worn bare,
His thick mustache, and curly hair,
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there,

But more through toil than age ;

A distant trampling sound he hears ; He looks abroad, and soon appears, O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears,

Beneath a pennon gay ;