HOW THE WATER COMES

DOWN AT LODORE.

HERE it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling.
Here smoking and frothing,
Its tumult and wrath in,

It hastens along conflicting strong;
Now striking and raging,
As if a war waging,

Its caverns and rocks among.
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and flinging,
Showering and springing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting

Around and around;
Collecting, disjecting,

With endless rebound;
Smiting and fighting,
A sight to delight in,
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with its
sound.

Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And brightening and whitening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,

And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and flittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,

And thundering and floundering, And falling and crawling and sprawling,

And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,

And sounding and bounding and rounding,

And bubbling and troubling and doubling,

Dividing and gliding and sliding, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,

And clattering and battering and shattering,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,

Retreating and meeting and beating and sheeting,

Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,

Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,

And so never ending but always descending,

Sounds and motions for ever and ever

are blending;

All at once, and all o'er, with a mighty

uproar,

And in this way the water comes down at Lodore.

THE OLD MAN'S COMFOR TS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM. You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

The few locks that are left you are

gray;

And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone,

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,

I remember'd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death!

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied;

Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!

And He hath not forgotten my age.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

I.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done; And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

II.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet,

In playing there, had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

III.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

IV.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men, said he, Were slain in the great victory.

V.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they kill'd each other for.

VI.

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But everybody said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

VII.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by:
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly :

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

Still follows as they voyage on;
The winds are motionless;
The gentle waters gently part
In murmurs round the prow.

He looks above, he looks around,
The boundless heaven, the boundless

sea,

The crescent moon, the little boat, Nought else above, below.

The moon is sunk, a dusky gray
Spreads o'er the eastern sky,
The stars grow pale and paler;
Oh beautiful! the godlike sun

Is rising o'er the sea!
Without an oar, without a sail,
The little boat rides rapidly;

Is that a cloud that skirts the sea?
There is no cloud in heaven!
And nearer now, and darker now —
It is it is the land!

For yonder are the rocks that rise
Dark in the reddening morn,
For loud around their hollow base
The surges rage and roar.

The little boat rides rapidly,
And now with shorter toss it heaves
Upon the heavier swell;

And now so near, they see

The shelves and shadows of the cliff,
And the low-lurking rocks,

O'er whose black summits, hidden half,

The shivering billows burst;

And nearer now they feel the breaker's

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,

The Mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd
round,

And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbro-
thok."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,