They meet, they crash,-God keep the men!

God give a moment's light! There is nothing but the tumult,

And the tempest and the night.

The men on shore were anxious, —
They grieved for what they knew:
What do you think the women did?
Love taught them what to do!
Outspoke a wife: "We've beds at home,
We'll burn them for a light!
Give us the men and the bare ground!
We want no more to-night."

They took the grandame's blanket,
Who shivered and bade them go;

They took the baby's pillow,

Who could not say them no;

And they heaped a great fire on the pier,
And knew not all the while

If they were heaping a bonfire,
Or only a funeral pile.

And, fed with precious food, the flame
Shone bravely on the black,

Till a cry rang through the people,
"A boat is coming back!"
Staggering dimly through the fog,
They see and then they doubt;

But, when the first prow strikes the pier,
Cannot you hear them shout?

Then all along the breadth of flame
Dark figures shrieked and ran,

With,

'Child, here comes your father!" Or, "Wife, is this your man?"

And faint feet touch the welcome shore,

And stay a little while;

And kisses drop from frozen lips,
Too tired to speak or smile.

So, one by one, they struggled in,
All that the sea would spare:
We will not reckon through our tears
The names that were not there;
But some went home without a bed,
When all the tale was told,

Who were too cold with sorrow
To know the night was cold.

And this is what the men must do,
Who work in wind and foam;
And this is what the women bear,
Who watch for them at home.
So when you see a Brixham boat
Go out to face the gales,
Think of the love that travels

Like light upon her sails.

M. B. S.

Brockley Coomb.

LINES

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795.

ITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye

WITH

I climb the Coomb's ascent; sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wildwood melody; Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock That on green plots o'er precipices browse; From the deep fissures of the naked rock

The yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, and now have gained the topmost site.

I rest;

Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets

My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed fields, and prospect-bounding sea!

Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O, were my Sara here!
Samuel Taylor Coleridge,

Brothers' Water.

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHERS'

THE

WATER.

cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,

The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green

field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The ploughboy is whooping-anon—anon
There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth.

Brough.

BROUGH BELLS.

CONCERNING these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they were given by one Brunskill, who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. One time it happened that his bull fell a-bellowing, which in the dialect of the country is called cruning, this being the genuine Saxon word to denote that vociferation. Thereupon he said to one of his neighbors, "Hearest thou how loud this bull crunes? If these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from Brough hither?" He answered, "Yea."-"Well then," says Brunskill, "I'll make them all crune together." And he sold them all, and with the price thereof he bought the said bells.

“ON

N Stanemore's side, one summer eve,
John Brunskill sate to see

His herds in yonder Borrodale

Come winding up the lea.

"Behind them, on the lowland's verge,
In the evening light serene,
Brough's silent tower, then newly built
By Blenkinsop, was seen.

'Slowly they came in long array,
With loitering pace at will;

At times a low from them was heard,
Far off, for all was still.