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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 routThen 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 highA 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!
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 ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas !

To manye more than myne and me;
But each will mourn his own (she saith).
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis shore,
“Cusha, Cusha, Cusha !” calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
“ Cusha, Cusha!” all along,
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,

Goeth, floweth:
From the meads where melick groweth,
When the water, winding down,
Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more
Where the reeds and rushes quiver,

Shiver, quiver;
Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,

To the sandy, lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
“Leave your meadow grasses mellow,

Mellow, mellow;
Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot ;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow;
Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;

Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking-shed.”


William Morris was born near London in 1835, and was educated at Oxford. He has become suddenly and universally known to the reading world by his poems. The Life and Death of Jason is Greek to the core, and takes the reader back to Homeric days. The Earthly Paradise is a collection of poems strung on the thread of a story, — some of them founded on classic fables or traditions, and some upon the wild legends of the Norse tribes. The author is an admirer and student of Chaucer, and has followed well his great master in the difficult art of fluent narration in verse ; he has also followed him in the habit of forcing rhymes and in the arbitrary use of accent, to the annoyance of the reader. His last work fills three stout volumes; the poet's art could have condensed it to advantage. Still, it must be admitted, the interest seldom flags, the verses run on like the weaving of a glittering stuff in a loom – the flying and returning shuttle often throwing up some figure of beauty, with only enough of plain surface intervening for judicious relief. The poems are, moreover, for a leisure day, for the mood of repose, for the contented and uncritical. They display in general a pervading sense of the beautiful, an admiration for the heroic, and, most of all, a passionate love of life for its own sake – a clinging to mere existence as the one priceless object of desire. The scenes and figures have an air of reality, yet are sufficiently remote and of ideal proportions. If, in addition to these traits, it were possible to add that they inspire fortitude and faith, and teach the high lessons of aspiration and duty, it would be enough to place the author among the immortals. But he is content with presenting his pictures of the elder days, and his verses give no sign that the thinking or the conscience of our own time has ever touched him. As he confesses in a tone of delicious languor, he is

“The idle singer of an empty day.” It is to be hoped that this vein of pure gold is not exhausted, and that after due rest the poet will again delight the vast multitude of readers who now offer their homage to his genius.

(Conclusion of The Man born to be King. - From The Earthly Paradise.) It was foretold to a certain King that an infant, born in a hut in which the King was forced to spend a night, would succeed him on the throne. His only child at the time was a newly-born daughter. The story recounts the various attempts made by the King to destroy the boy, and so bring the pruphecy to nought. The babe was first put in a box and thrown into a river, but was rescued and kindly reared by a miller. Afterwards, when the secret of the boy's birth was discovered, the King directed a retainer to decoy him away from the miller and despitch him with a dagger. But the boy was found by monks, still living, with the King's dagger in his wound, and was cared for at the monastery. After arriving at man's estate he became a soldier in the royal retinue, and the necessary link in his history was accidentally furnished by the King's dagger, which the young man had kept. In the mean time the King had sent his daughter to a distant castle, and had given her an intimation that she might expect to receive a visit there from her destined husband. To make sure of the destruction of his now formidable foe, the King sent him with a sealed letter to the seneschal of this castle, directing the instant execution of the messenger. The youth was now in early manhood, handsome, brave, light-hearted, and unsuspecting. His journey to the distant castle and his subsequent adventures are related in the part of the poem that follows: —

Long time he rode, till suddenly,
When now the sun was broad and high,
From out a hollow where the yew
Still guarded patches of the dew,

He found at last that he had won
That highland's edge, and gazed upon
A valley that beneath the haze
Of that most fair of autumn days

Showed glorious ; fair with golden sheaves, Rich with the darkened autumn leaves, 'Gay with the water-meadows green, The bright blue streams that lay between, The miles of beauty stretched away From that bleak hill-side bare and gray, Till white cliffs over slopes of vine Drew 'gainst the sky a broken line. And 'twixt the vineyards and the stream Michael saw gilded spirelets gleam ; For, hedged with many a flowery close, There lay the Castle of the Rose, His hurried journey's aim and end.

Then downward he began to wend, And 'twixt the flowery hedges sweet He heard the hook smite down the wheat, And murmur of the unseen folk; But when he reached the stream that broke The golden plain, but leisurely He passed the bridge, for he could see The masters of that ripening realm, Cast down beneath an ancient elm Upon a little strip of grass, From hand to hand the pitcher pass, While on the turf beside them lay The ashen-handled sickles gray, The matters of their cheer between : Slices of white cheese, specked with green, And green-striped onions and rye-bread, And summer apples faintly red, Even beneath the crimson skin; And yellow grapes, well ripe and thin, Plucked from the cottage gable-end.

In summer morn; the King again,
The envious greetings of strange men,
This mighty horse and rich array,
This journey on an unknown way.

Surely he thought to wake from it,
And once more by the wagon sit,
Blinking upon the sunny mill.

But not for either good or ill
Shall he see one of all those days;
On through the quivering noontide haze
He rode, and now on either hand
Heavy with fruit the trees did stand;
Nor had he ridden long, ere he
The red towers of the house could see
Gray on the wind-beat southern side:
And soon the gates thrown open wide
He saw, the long-fixed drawbridge down,
The moat, with lilies overgrown,
'Midst which the gold-scaled fishes lay:
Such peace was there for many a day.

And deep within the archway's shade
The warder on his cloak was laid,
Dozing, one hand upon a harp.
And nigh him a great golden carp
Lay stiff, with all his troubles done,
Drawn from the moat ere yet the sun
Was high, and nigh him was his bane,
An angling-rod of Indian cane.

Now hearing Michael's horse-hoofs smite
The causeway, shading from the light
His eyes, as one scarce yet awake,
He made a shift his spear to take,
And, eying Michael's badge the while,
Rose up, and with a lazy smile
Said, “Ho ! fair sir, abide, abide,
And show why hitherward ye ride
Unto my lady's royal home.”
Said Michael, “From the King I come,
As by my badge ye well may see ;
And letters have I here with me
To give my lord the seneschal.”

“Yea," said the man. “But in the hall He feasteth now; what haste is there? Certes full quickly cometh care ; And sure I am he will not read Thy letters, or to aught give heed Till he has played out all the play, And every guest has gone away: So thou, O damoiseau, must wait; Tie up thine horse anigh the gate, And sit with me, and thou shalt hear The Kaiser lieth on his bier. Thou laughest, - hast thou never heard Of this same valorous Red Beard, And how he died? well, I can sing Of many another dainty thing,

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And certes Michael felt their friend
Hearing their voices, nor forgot
His boyhood and the pleasant spot
Beside the well-remembered stream:
And friendly did this water seem
As through its white-flowered weeds it ran
Bearing good things to beast and man.

Yea, as the parapet he passed,
And they a greeting toward him cast,
Once more he felt a boy again;
As though beneath the harvest wain
He was asleep, by that old stream,
And all these things were but a dream,
The King, the squire, the hurrying ride
Unto the lonely quagmire side ;
The sudden pain, the deadly swoon,
The feverish life from noon to noon ;
The tending of the kind oid man,
The black and white Dominican,
The hour before the Abbot's throne,
The poring o'er old books alone,

And the warm, hazy autumn-tide,
And many a niusical sweet sound,
He cast him down upon the ground,
And watched the glittering water leap,
Still singing low, nor thought to sleep.

But scarce three minutes had gone by
Before, as if in mockery,
The starling chattered o'er his head,
And nothing he remembered,
Nor dreamed of aught that he had seen.

Thou wilt not a long while forget,
The budget is not empty yet.
Peter ! I think thou mockest me,
But thou art young and fair, perdie,
I wish thee luck, - well, thou mayst go
And feel the afternoon wind blow
Within Dame Bertha's pleasance here;
She who was held so lief and dear,
All this was built but for her sake,
Who made the hearts of men to ache;
And dying full of years and shame
Yet left an unforgotten name, –
God rest her soul!”

Michael the while
Hearkened his talking with a smile,
Then said, “O friend, I think to hear
Both 'The King lieth on his bier'
And many another song of thee,
Ere I depart; but now show me
The pleasance of the ancient queen,
For these red towers above the green
Show like the gates of paradise,
That surely somewhere through them lies."

Then said the warder, “That may be If thou know'st what may come to thee. When past the drawbridge thou hast gone, Upon the left three steps of stone Lead to a path beneath the wall Of the great court, that folk now call The falconer's path, nor canst thou miss Going thereby, to find the bliss Thou look'st for, since the path ends there, And through a wicket gilded fair The garden lies where thou wouldst be: Nor will I fail to come to thee Whene'er my lord the seneschal Shall pass well sed from out the hall."

Then Michael, thanking him, passed on,
And soon the gilded wicket won,
And entered that pleasance sweet,
And wandered there with wary feet
And open mouth, as though he deemed
That in some lovely dream he dreamed,
And feared to wake to common day,
So fair was all ; and e'en decay
Brought there but pensive loveliness,
Where autumn those old walls did bless
With wealth of fruit, and through the grass
Unscared the spring-born thrush did pass,
Who yet knew nought of winter-tide.

So wandering, to a fountain's side
He came, and o'er the basin hung,
Watching the fishes, as he sung
Some song remembered from of old,
Ere yet the miller won that gold.
But soon made drowsy with his ride,

Meanwhile unto that garden green
Had come the Princess, and with her
A maiden that she held right dear,
Who knew the inmost of her mind.
Now those twain, as the scented wind
Played with their raiment or their hair,
Had late been running here and there,
Chasing each other merrily,
As maids do, thinking no one by :
But now, well wearied therewithal,
Had let their gathered garments fall
About their feet, and slowly went;
And through the leaves a murmur sent,
As of two happy doves that sing
The soft returning of the spring.

Now of these twain the Princess spoke
The less, but into laughter broke
Not seldom, and would redden oft,
As on her lips her fingers soft
She laid, as still the other maid,
Half grave, half smiling, follies said.

So in their walk they drew anigh
That fountain in the midst, whereby
Lay Michael sleeping, dreaming nought
Of such fair things so nigh him brought;
They, when the fountain shaft was passed,
Beheld him on the ground downcast,
And stopped at first, until the maid
Stepped lightly forward to the shade,
And when she had gazed there a while
Came running back again, a smile
Parting her lips, and her bright eyes
Afire with many fantasies;
And ere the Lady Cecily
Could speak a word, “Hush i hush !" said

she; Did I not say that he would come To woo thee in thy peaceful home Before thy father brought him here? Come, and behold him, have no fear! The great bell would not wake him now, Right in his ears."

“Nay, what dost thou?” The Princess said; “let us go hence ; Thou know'st I give obedience

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