Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
From the clovers lift your head;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,

Jetty, to the milking shed."

If it be long, ay, long ago,

When I beginne to think howe long,
Againe I hear the Lindis flow,

Swift as an arrow, sharpe and strong;
And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
That ring the tune of Enderby.

Alle fresh the level pasture lay,

And not a shadowe mote be seene,
Save where full fyve good miles away
The steeple towered from out the greene;
And lo! the great bell farre and wide
Was heard in all the country side
That Saturday at eventide.

The swanherds 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' ?"

looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main de 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 cried) 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 saith;
"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 lea,
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.

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-
Then beaten foam flew round about-
Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat,
Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.

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!

66

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;
The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebb swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and mee:
But each will mourn his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

(By permission of the Author.)

UNDER CANVAS.—WOUNDED.

HON. HENRY BULWER LYTTON.

[Son of the eminent novelist, Lord Lytton, and worthy of his high literary parentage, Mr. Bulwer writes genuine poetry. His lines are full of music and tenderness; and his subjects, though generally drawn from nature, are placed in dramatic situations by a skilful hand. His published poems are The Wanderer," "Clytemnestra," and "Lucile," from which the following is extracted.]

"OH is it a phantom? a dream of the night?

A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain

Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain,
To and fro, up and down.

But it is not the wind
That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind
That hath moulded that vision.

A pale woman enters,
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer,
There, all in a slumbrous and shadowy glimmer,
The sufferer sees that still form floating on,
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.

She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands

By his bedside all silent. She lays her white hands
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing
Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd dressing
Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals

Thro' the racked weary frame: and throughout it, he feels
The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood.

Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a gray hood
Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him,
And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before him,
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!

A soft voice says--' Sleep!'

And he sleeps: he is sleeping.

"He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there :
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care
Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering
The aspect of all things around him.

Revering
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest

Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly
Sigh'd-Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly
And minist ring spirit!'

A whisper serene
Slid softer than silence-"The Sour Seraphine,

A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire

Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. "Thou didst not shun death: shun not life.

To live than to die. Sleep!'

"Tis more brave

He sleeps: he is sleeping.

"He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping
The skies with chill splendour. And there, never flitting,
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.

As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning
Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning,
Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.

He said,

'If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,
'Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing
Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing

Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou ?'

'O son

'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not! One
"Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead:
"To thee, and to others, alive yet'—she said—
So long as there liveth the poor gift in me
"Of this ministration: to them, and to thee,

'Dead all things beside. A French Nun, whose vocation

Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
'Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,
"There her land! there her kindred!'

She bent down to smoothe

The hot pillow, and added-' Yet more than another Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 'I know them-I know them.'

'Oh can it be? you!

My dearest, dear father! my mother! you knew,

'You know them ?'

She bow'd half averting, her head

In silence.

He brokenly, timidly said,

'Do they know I am thus ?'

'Hush!'-she smiled, as she drew

From her bosom two letters: and-can it be true?
That beloved and familiar writing!

He burst

Into tears-'My poor mother, my father! the worst 'Will have reached them!'

'No, no!' she exclaim'd with a smile, "They know you are living; they know that meanwhile 'I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!' But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest: And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, The calm voice say-'Sleep!'

And he sleeps, he is sleeping.

(By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

KING ROBERT OF SICILY.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was a native of Portland, Maine, United States, born Feb. 27, 1807. After passing three years and a half in travelling through France, Spain, Germany, Holland, and England, he returned to America, and became Professor of Modern Languages at Bowdoin College, Brunswick (where he was himself educated), in 1829. Resigning this appointment in 1835, he made another tour through Europe, was appointed Professor of Languages and Belles-Lettres, in Harvard College, and afterwards resided at Cambridge, U.S.A. His works are "Outre Mer; ""Hyperion," a romance; "Voices of the Night;" "Ballads and other Poems;' ""The Spanish Student," a play; "Kavanagh," a play; "The Golden Legend;" "Miles Standish;" "Tales of a Wayside Inn," &c. Died March 24th, 1882.]

ROBERT OF SICILY, brother of Pope Urbane,
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,

Apparelled in magnificent attire,

With retinue of many a knight and squire,

M