"Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, "for the dews will soon be

Leave

falling;

your meadow-grasses mellow, mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,

Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, hollow, hollow;

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.”

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 drove, 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.

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.

*

The following lyric illustrates the pictorial beauty of her style, no less felicitously:—

When the dimpled water slippeth,

Full of laughter on its way,

And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
Running by the brink at play;
When the poplar leaves atremble
Turn their edges to the light,

And the far-up clouds resemble

Veils of gauze most clear and white;

And the sunbeams fall and flatter

Woodland moss and branches brown,
And the glossy finches chatter

Up and down, up and down;
Though the heart be not attending,

Having music of her own,

On the grass, through meadows wending,
It is sweet to walk alone.

Miss Ingelow's spirited strains are worthily followed by the sweet singing of the American sisters, ALICE and PHOEBE CARY, whose lives could not long be be dissociated in earth or heaven. Of deeply religious faith, their songs constantly bespeak it. In her Order for a Picture, Alice gives us her own favorite, furnishing a glimpse of the ho.ae of her childhood:

"Oh, good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw ?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.
"Woods and cornfields a little brown-

The picture must not be over-bright-
Yet all in the golden and gracious light
Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down.
Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn
Lying between them, not quite sere,

And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,

When the wind can hardly find breathing-room.
Under their tassels,-cattle near,

Biting shorter the short, green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,-

(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!)
These, and the house where I was born,
Low and little, and black and old,
With children many as it can hold,

All at the windows open wide,—
Heads and shoulders clear outside;
And fair young faces all ablush;

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, wayside bush."

Better known is Phoebe's Nearer Home:

One sweetly solemn thought

Comes to me o'er and o'er ;

I'm nearer my home to day

Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father's house,

Where the many mansions be;

Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea ;

Nearer the bound of life,

Where we lay our burdens down ;

Nearer leaving the cross;

Nearer gaining the crown.

But lying darkly between,

Winding down through the night,

Is the silent, unknown stream

That leads at last to the light.

Oh, if my mortal feet

Have almost gained the brink;

If it be I am nearer home

Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust;

Let my spirit feel in death

That her feet are firmly set

On the rock of a living faith!

The peer of any man in mental power, in the ability to create souls and endow them with an individuality stamping their author as a genius of the highest rank, "GEORGE ELIOT" (Mrs. George H. Lewes), like Dickens, Scott or Thackeray, should be expected to contribute something striking to poetical literature; and not in vain, for, though her conception of her own powers as being greatest as a poet is not indorsed by the general opinion, still her Spanish Gypsy will richly repay the most critical reading. Here is a song from it :—

Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness,
Lithe as panther forest-roaming,

Long-armed naiad, when she dances,
On a stream of ether floating,

Bright, O bright Fedalma!

Form all curves like softness drifted,
Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling,

Far-off music slowly winged,

Gently rising, gently sinking,

Bright, O bright Fedalma!

Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf,