Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(0, ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward

gone;

His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;
(Silence !)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.

The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying

The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.

The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eying,

The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"

CAROLINE NORTON.

HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.

THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
The ringers ran by two, by three;
"Pull! if ye never pulled before;

Good ringers, pull your best," quoth hee.

The swannerds, where their sedges are,
Moved on in sunset's golden breath;
The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
Till, floating o'er the grassy sea,
Came downe that kyndly message free,
The Brides of Mavis Enderby.

Then some looked uppe into the sky,
And all along where Lindis flows
To where the goodly vessels lie,

And where the lordly steeple shows.
They sayde, "And why should this thing be,
What danger lowers by land or sea?
They ring the tune of Enderby.

"For evil news from Mablethorpe,
Of pyrate galleys, warping down,
For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,

They have not spared to wake the towne ;
But while the west bin red to see,
And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
Why ring The Brides of Enderby?

I looked without, and lo! my sonne

Came riding downe with might and main ; He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again : "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

"The olde sea-wall" (he cryed) "is downe!

The rising tide comes on apace; And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place!" He shook as one that looks on death:

"God save you, mother!" straight he sayth; "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long; And ere yon bells beganne to play,

Afar I heard her milking-song.'
He looked across the grassy sea,
To right, to left, Ho, Enderby!
They rang The Brides of Enderby.

With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,

And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud,
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

Upon the roofe we sate that night;
The noise of bells went sweeping by ;

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high,A lurid mark, and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang Enderby.

They rang the sailor lads to guide,

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I, - my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"O, come in life, or come in death!
O lost my love, Elizabeth!"

THE MORNING-GLORY.

WE wreathed about our darling's head
The morning-glory bright;

Her little face looked out beneath

So full of life and light,

So lit as with a sunrise,
That we could only say,
"She is the morning-glory true,
And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time
We called her by their name,
And very fitting did it seem,

For sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle bars she smiled

To catch the first faint ray,

As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue,

As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine

Round their supports are thrown,

As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.

There is a solitary tomb, with rankling weeds o'ergrown,

A single palm bends mournfully beside the mouldering stone

Amidst whose leaves the passing breeze with fitful gust and slow

Seems sighing forth a feeble dirge for him who sleeps below.

Beside, its sparkling drops of foam a desert fountain showers;

And, floating calm, the lotus wreathes its red and scented flowers,

Here lurks the mountain fox unseen beside the vulture's nest;

And steals the wild hyena forth, in lone and silent quest.

Is this deserted resting-place the couch of fallen might?

And ends the path of glory thus, and fame's inspiring light?

Chief of a progeny of kings renowned and feared afar,

How is thy boasted name forgot, and dimmed thine honor's star!

Approach, — what saith the graven verse? “Alas for human pride!

Dominion's envied gifts were mine, nor earth her praise denied.

Thou traveller, if a suppliant's voice find echo in thy breast,

O, envy not the little dust that hides my mortal rest!"

HELVELLYN.

ANONYMOUS.

A BARKING Sound the shepherd hears,

A cry as of a dog or fox;

He halts, and searches with his eyes

Among the scattered rocks;

And now at distance can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed;
Its motions, too, are wild and shy,
With something, as the shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry;

Nor is there any one in sight
All round, in hollow or on height;
Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear.
What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below!

Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,
From trace of human foot or hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tarn a lonely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak
In symphony austere ;

Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud,
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, would hurry past,
But that enormous barrier holds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts, awhile
The shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stones, following the dog
As quickly as he may ;

Nor far had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground.
The appalled discoverer with a sigh
Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks
The man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the shepherd's mind
It breaks, and all is clear.
He instantly recalled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came ;
Remembered, too, the very day

On which the traveller passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake
This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The dog, which still was hovering nigh,

Repeating the same timid cry,

This dog had been through three months' space

A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain, that, since the day

When this ill-fated traveller died,

The dog had watched about the spot,

Or by his master's side.

How nourished here through such long time
He knows who gave that love sublime,
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

HELVELLYN.

[In the spring of 1805 a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months af terwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.]

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed

misty and wide :