SMITH OF MAUDLIN.

MY chums will burn their Indian weeds

The very night I pass away,

And cloud-propelling puff and puff,

As white the thin smoke melts away; Then Jones of Wadham, eyes half closed, Rubbing the ten hairs on his chin,

Will say,

This very pipe I use

Was poor old Smith's of Maudlin."

That night in High Street there will walk
The ruffling gownsmen three abreast,
The stiff-necked proctors, wary-eyed,

The dons, the coaches, and the rest;
Sly "Cherub Sims" will then purpose
Billiards, or some sweet ivory sin;
Tom cries, "He played a pretty game,
Did honest Smith of Maudlin."

The boats are out! the arrowy rush,
The mad bull's jerk, the tiger's strength;
The Balliol men have wopped the Queen's,
Hurrah! but only by a length.

Dig on, ye muffs; ye cripples, dig!

Pull blind, till crimson sweats the skin;The man who bobs and steers cries, "O For plucky Smith of Maudlin! "

Wine-parties met, a noisy night,

Red sparks are breaking through the cloud;

The man who won the silver cup
Is in the chair erect and proud;
Three are asleep, — one to himself
Sings, "Yellow jacket 's sure to win."
A silence; "Men, the memory

Of poor old Smith of Maudlin ! ”

The boxing-rooms, - with solemn air

A freshman dons the swollen glove; With slicing strokes the lapping sticks Work out a rubber, - three and love ; With rasping jar the padded man

Whips Thompson's foil, so square and thin, And cries, "Why, zur, you 've not the wrist Of Muster Smith of Maudlin."

But all this time beneath the sheet

I shall lie still, and free from pain,
Hearing the bed-makers sluff in

To gossip round the blinded pane;
Try on my rings, sniff up my scent,
Feel in my pockets for my tin;
While one hag says, "We all must die,
Just like this Smith of Maudlin."

Ah! then a dreadful hush will come,
And all I hear will be the fly
Buzzing impatient round the wall,

And on the sheet where I must lie;

Next day a jostling of feet,

The men who bring the coffin in:

"This is the door, — the third-pair back,

Here's Mr. Smith of Maudlin! "

Walter Thornbury.

Penrith.

HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH.

ERE stood an oak, that long had borne affixed

HE

To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art,
Among its withering topmost branches mixed,
The palmy antlers of a hunted hart,

Whom the dog Hercules pursued, — his part
Each desperately sustaining, till at last

Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased
And chaser bursting here with one dire smart.
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat!
High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride;
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat;
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide
Verse that would guard thy memory, HART'S-HORN TREE!
William Wordsworth.

THE COUNTESS' PILLAR.

ON the roadside between Penrith and Appleby there stands a pillar with the following inscription:

"This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4 1. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April forever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!"

WHILE the poor gather round, till the end of time

May this bright flower of charity display Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;

Flower than the loveliest of the vernal prime
Lovelier, transplanted from heaven's purest clime!
Charity never faileth": on that creed,

More than on written testament or deed,
The pious lady built with hope sublime.
Alms on this stone to be dealt out forever!
Laus Deo." Many a stranger passing by
Has with that parting mixed a filial sigh,
Blest its humane memorial's fond endeavor,
And, fastening on those lines an eye tear-glazed,
Has ended, though no clerk, with "God be praised!"

William Wordsworth.

ROMAN ANTIQUITIES.

FROM THE ROMAN STATION AT OLD PENRITH.

OW profitless the relics that we cull,

How

Troubling the last holds of ambitious Rome,
Unless they chasten fancies that presume
Too high, or idle agitations lull!

Of the world's flatteries if the brain be full,
To have no seat for thought were better doom,
Like this old helmet, or the eyeless skull
Of him who gloried in its nodding plume.
Heaven out of view, our wishes what are they?
Our fond regrets tenacious in their grasp?
The sage's theory? the poet's lay?—
Mere fibula without a robe to clasp;
Obsolete lamps, whose light no time recalls;
Urns without ashes, tearless lachrymals!

William Wordsworth.

Penshurst.

TO PENSHURST.

HOU art not, Penshurst, built to envious show

THOU

Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row

Of polish'd pillars or a roofe of gold:

Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told;
Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And, these grudg'd at, art reverenc'd the while,
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soile, of ayre,
Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.
Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:
Thy Mount, to which the Dryads do resort,

Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad beach and the chestnut shade :
The taller tree which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met.
There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names
Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames;
And thence the ruddy Satyres oft provoke
The lighter Faunes, to reach thy ladie's oke.
Thy copp's too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,
When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,

Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine and calves, do feed:
The middle grounds thy mares, and horses breed.
Each banck doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps