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The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound;
The bubbles rose and burst around:
Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who comes to the rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high:
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is, they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”

“Canst hear,” said one, “the breakers roar?

For methinks we should be near the shore.” “Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.”

They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
O Heaven! it is the Inchcape Rock !”

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair:
The waves rush in on every side;
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,-
A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.

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The island lies nine leagues away.

Along its solitary shore,
Of craggy rock and sandy bay,

No sound but ocean's roar,
Save where the bold wild sea-bird makes her home,
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam.

But when the light winds lie at rest,

And on the glassy, heaving sea
The black duck, with her glossy breast,

Sits swinging silently,
How beautiful! no ripples break the reach,
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach.

And inland rests the green, warm dell;

The brook comes tinkling down its side;
From out the trees the Sabbath bell

Rings cheerful, far and wide,
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks,
That feed about the vale among the rocks.

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat,

In former days within the vale:
Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet;

Curses were on the gale;
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men;
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then.

But calm, low voices, words of grace,

Now slowly fall upon the ear:
A quiet look is in each face,

Subdued and holy fear:
Each motion's gentle; all is kindly done;-
Come, listen how from crime this isle was won.

TO A WATERFOWL.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT,

Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant Aight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean-side ?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, –
The desert and illimitable air,

Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome sand,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart:

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone

Will lead my steps aright.

COUNTY GUY.

WALTER SCOTT.

Ah, County Guy! the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trilled all day,

Sits hushed his partner nigh;
Breeze, bird and flower confess the hour

But where is County Guy ?

The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know-

But where is County Guy?

THE OLD SWORD.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

Old Sword ! tho' dim and rusted

Be now thy sheeny blade,
Thy glittering edge encrusted

With cankers Time hath made;
Yet once around thee swelled the cry

Of triumph's fierce delight,
The shoutings of the victory,

The thunders of the fight!

Tho' age hath past upon thee

With still corroding breath, Yet once streamed redly on thee

The purpling tide of death: What time amid the war of foes

The dastard's cheek grew pale, As through the feudal field arose

The ringing of the mail.

Old Sword! what arm hath wielded

Thy richly gleaming brand,
'Mid lordly forms who shielded

The niaidens of their land ?
And who hath cloven his foes in wrath

With thy puissant fire,
And scattered in his perilous path

The victims of his ire ?

Old Sword ! whose fingers clasped thee

Around thy carved hilt?
And with that hand which grasped thee

What heroes' blood was spilt;
When fearlessly, with open hearts,

And lance to lance opposed,
Beneath the shade of barbed darts

The dark-eyed warriors closed:

Old Sword ! I would not burnish

Thy venerable rust,
Nor

sweep away the tarnish
Of darkness and of dust!
Lie there, in slow and still decay,

Unfamed in olden rhyine,
The relic of a former day,

A wreck of ancient time!

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS

FROM GHENT TO AIX.

ROBERT BROWNING,

This spirited poem is said to have no foundation in fact. I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; “Good speed !” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un

drew; "Speed !” echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

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