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The inextinguishable spirit strives.

O, may that Power who hushed the stormy seas,
And cleared a way for the first votaries,
Prosper the new-born College of St. Bees!

Alas! the genius of our age from schools
Less humble draws her lessons, aims, and rules.
To prowess guided by her insight keen
Matter and spirit are as one machine;
Boastful idolatress of formal skill,

She in her own would merge the Eternal Will:
Better, if reason's triumphs match with these,
Her flight before the bold credulities

That furthered the first teaching of St. Bees.

William Wordsworth.

I

St. Helen's-Auckland.

ST. HELEN'S-AUCKLAND.

WANDER o'er each well-known field
My boyhood's home in view,

And thoughts that were as fountains sealed
Are welling forth anew.

The ancient house, the aged trees,

They bring again to light

The years that like a summer's breeze
Were trackless in their flight.

How much is changed of what I see, How much more changed am I, And yet how much is left, to me How is the distant nigh!

The walks are overgrown and wild,
The terrace flags are green,
But I am once again a child,
I am what I have been.

The sounds that round about me rise
Are what none other hears;
I see what meets no other eyes,
Though mine are dim with tears,

The breaking of the summer's morn,
The tinge on house and tree,
The billowy clouds, the beauty born
Of that celestial sea,

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The freshness of the faëry land
Lit by the golden gleam,
It is my youth that where I stand
Surrounds me like a dream.

Alas! the real never lent

Those tints, too bright to last; They fade, and bid me rest content And let the past be past.

The wave that dances to the breast
Of earth can ne'er be stayed;

The star that glitters in the crest
Of morning needs must fade.

But there shall flow another tide,
So let me hope, and far
Over the outstretched waters wide
Shall shine another star.

In every change of man's estate
Are lights and guides allowed;
The fiery pillar will not wait,
But, parting, sends the cloud.

Nor mourn I the less manly part
Of life to leave behind;
My loss is but the lighter heart,
My gain the graver mind.

Henry Taylor.

St. John's Valley.

THE VALLEY OF ST. JOHN.

rode till over down and dell

Heide more
HE

The shade more broad and deeper fell;

And though around the mountain's head

Flowed streams of purple and gold and red,

Dark at the base, unblest by beam,

Frowned the black rocks and roared the stream.

With toil the king his way pursued

By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,
Till on his course obliquely shone
The narrow valley of St. John,
Down sloping to the western sky,
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The king drew up his charger's rein;
With gauntlet raised he screened his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,

And, from beneath his glove of mail,
Scanned at his ease the lovely vale,
While 'gainst the sun his armor bright
Gleamed ruddy like the beacon's light.

Paled in by many a lofty hill,

The narrow dale lay smooth and still,
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A winding brooklet found its bed.
But, midmost of the vale, a mound
Arose, with airy turrets crowned,
Buttress and rampire's circling bound,
And mighty keep and tower;
Seemed some primeval giant's hand
The castle's massive walls had planned,
A ponderous bulwark, to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod's power.
Above the moated entrance slung,
The balanced drawbridge trembling hung,
As jealous of a foe;

Wicket of oak, as iron hard,

With iron studded, clenched, and barred,

And pronged portcullis, joined to guard
The gloomy pass below.

But the gray walls no banners crowned,
Upon the watch-tower's airy round

No warder stood his horn to sound,
No guard beside the bridge was found,
And, where the Gothic gateway frowned,
Glanced neither bill nor bow.

Sir Walter Scott.

A

St. Keyne.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

WELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh;

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

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