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Only croquet? Never trust to the game,
Kindling such raillery, feeding such flame;
Keeping such bird-bolts of laughter in flight,
Tossing such roses of battle in sight!
Roland in triumph and ready to scoff,
Christabel poising her mallet far-off,
Ball speeding on with the wind in its wake,
Smiting its rival and hitting the stake!
Who is the victor! Proud Roland, at bay,
Captures the hand that has won at croquet.

Now is their magic enchainment complete;
Haughty, shy Christabel — far-away sweet,
Caught in that wind from the Aidenn of souls,
Blushes rose-bright as red snow of the poles!
Out of all lovers match these if you can;-
Spotless, great-hearted, the flower of our clan.
If they should quarrel-half-right and half-wrong-
Oaks root them deeper when breezes are strong.
Now may Love lead them away and away,
Through the wide Heavens, from that game of
croquet!
AMANDA T. JONES.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries," Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry.”

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. "And fast before her father's men Three days we 've fled together, For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?”

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

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GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

H! what's the matter?-what's the matter?

What is't that ails young Harry Gill,
That evermore his teeth they chatter-
Chatter, chatter, chatter still?
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffel gray and flannel fine;
He has a blanket on his back,

And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,

"Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbors tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon,

"Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover

And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill-fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door

Might see how poor a hut she had.
All day she spun in her poor dwelling,
And then her three hours' work at night—
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling -
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltering village green,

On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage;

But she poor woman · housed alone. "Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day; Then at her door the canty dame

Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh, then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead;
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed,

And then for cold not sleep a wink!
Oh, joy for her! whene'er in winter

The winds at night had made a rout,
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet, never had she, well or sick,

As every man who knew her says,

A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.
Now, when the frost was past enduring,
And made her poor old bones to ache,
Could anything be more alluring

Than an old hedge to Goody Blake?
And now and then, it must be said,
When her old bones were cold and chill,
She left her fire, or left her bed,
To seek the hedge of Harry Gill.
Now, Harry he had long suspected
This trespass of old Goody Blake,
And vowed that she should be detected,
And he on her would vengeance take.
And oft from his warm fire he'd go,

And to the fields his road would take; And there at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley,

Thus looking out did Harry stand; The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble-land. He hears a noise! - he's all awake!Again!-on tiptoe down the hill He softly creeps. 'Tis Goody Blake! She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! Right glad was he when he beheld her! Stick after stick did Goody pull; He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The byway back again to take, He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake; And fiercely by the arm he took her,

And by the arm he held her fast; And fiercely by the arm he shook her,

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And cried, I've caught you, then, at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said,

Her bundle from her lap let fall;

And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed
To God, who is the Judge of all.

She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
While Harry held her by the arm-
"God, who art never out of hearing,

Oh, may he never more be warm!
The cold, cold moon above her head,
Thus on her knees did Goody pray.
Young Harry heard what she had said,
And, icy cold, he turned away.

He went complaining all the morrow
That he was cold and very chill:
His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow—
Alas! that day for Harry Gill!

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N part these nightly terrors to dispel, Giles, ere he sleeps, his little flock must tell. From the fireside with many a shrug he hies, Glad if the full-orb'd moon salute his eyes, And through the unbroken stillness of the night Shed on his path her beams of cheering light. With sauntering steps he climbs the distant stile, Whilst all around him wears a placid smile; There views the white-robed clouds in clusters driven, And all the glorious pageantry of Heaven; Low, on the utmost boundary of the sight, The rising vapors catch the silver light;

Thence Fancy measures, as they parting fly,
Which first will throw its shadow on the eye,
Passing the source of light; and thence away,
Succeeded quick by brighter still than they.
Far yet above these wafted clouds are seen
(In a remoter sky, still more serene)
Others, detached in ranges through the air,
Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair;
Scattered immensely wide from east to west,
The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest.
These to the raptured eye, aloud proclaim
Their mighty Shepherd's everlasting Name.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

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IVE years have passed; five summers with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters rolling from their mountain-
springs

With a sweet inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
Among the woods and copses, nor disturb
The wild green landscape. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms,
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up in silence, from among the trees
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in. the houseless woods,
Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire
The hermit sits alone.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

LOCHINVAR'S RIDE.

YOUNG Lochinvar has come out of the West! Through all the wild border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword he weapons had
none;

He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented,-the gallant came late;
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and

all.

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,-
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,-
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter;-my suit you denied:
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure,-drink one cup of wine.
There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far.
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up:
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

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