I must! - yon green oak, branch and crest, The noble boy!—how proudly sprung It seemed like youth to see him young, But the hour of the knell and the dirge is nigh, Say not 't is vain! I tell thee, some Felicia Hemans. Brigham. NUN'S WELL, BRIGHAM." HE cattle, crowding round this beverage clear THE To slake their thirst, with reckless hoofs have trod The encircling turf into a barren clod, Through which the waters creep, then disappear, Yet o'er the brink, and round the limestone cell Name that first struck by chance my startled ear,) William Wordsworth. 0, Brignall. BRIGNALL BANKS. BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And you may gather garlands there, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily, "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, I'd rather rove with Edmund there, "If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life we lead, That dwell by dale and down? And if thou canst that riddle read, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, "I read you, by your bugle-horn, His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.” Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, I would I were with Edmund there, "With burnished brand and musketoon, I read you for a bold dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum." "I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. And O, though Brignall banks be fair, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, "Maiden! a nameless life I lead, The fiend whose lantern lights the mead And when I'm with my comrades met, Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, Sir Walter Scott. Bristol. BRISTOL. How proud, Opposed to Walton's silent towers, how proud, With all her spires and fanes and volumed smoke, Trailing in columns to the midday sun, Black, or pale blue, above the cloudy haze, And the great stir of commerce, and the noise Of passing and repassing wains, and cars, And trade's deep murmur, and a street of masts Gloomy with troops of coal-nymphs, seated high William Lisle Bowles. EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON, IN THE CATHEDRAL OF BRISTOL. TAKE, holy earth! all that my soul holds dear; Take that best gift which heaven so lately gave; To Bristol's fount I bore with trembling care Her faded form; she bowed to taste the wave, And died! Does youth, does beauty, read the line? Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm? Speak, dead Maria! breathe a strain divine: Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee; Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move; |