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And from the hills the eddying winds
Perplex the steadiest hands.

And now she glides in water smooth,
But the ebb-tide runs fast,

And suddenly the land-wind blows,
And shakes each bending mast:
Soon back to sea she drifts away,
Nearing St. Minver's shore;

Then grounds, and o'er her deck the high
Atlantic billows pour.

Man, man the lifeboat! Many a crew
Her pride has been to save

In a stronger gale and darker hour,

And from a wilder wave.

Their names are: Harris, Truscott, French,
Hills, Cronnell, Brenton, May,
Varcoe, Bate, Bennett, Malyn, and
Intross and coastguard Shea.

All trusty men of pluck and strength,
And skill to guide withal;

Some more than some had proved their worth,

As chance to them did fall:

Shea for his human chivalry

The Imperial medal wore;

Intross and Varcoe's breasts the words

"Crimea," "Baltic," bore.

One more, Hills, claims brief mention here,
No sturdier man than he;

In quest of Franklin's bones he went
To the dread Arctic Sea.

Such was the staple of the crew,
Who worked with earnest will;
To see them breast the awful waves
Made the spectators thrill.

Towards the doomed ship their way they cleave,

But may not reach her side;

And then to Polzeath Bay they steer,

But stronger runs the tide :

The breakers, as they heave and burst,
The buoyant boat submerge;

O'erturned she rights, — again o'erturned,
She drifts upon the surge!

The watchers from Trebethic Cliff
And high Pentire rush down,
As dead or gasping on the rocks
The dauntless crew are thrown:
Of the thirteen but eight survive!
Shea, Truscott, breathe no more;
Varcoe and Cronnell, last Intross,
Come lifeless to the shore.

The schooner's crew, five souls in all,
Save one the shore did reach,
Just where the stranded vessel lay,

On the Trebethic beach.

He, at the moment when she struck,

Was jerked into the wave;

And well he swam in sight of all,

But none was nigh to save.

The wail of widows pierced the night,
And on the starlit strand

The weeping children, fatherless,

Still lingered, hand in hand.

And love and pity thrilled men's hearts,

For sorrow makes all kin;

And not to honor bravery

Were more than shame,

were sin.

Soon to the old churchyard the dead
Went with a countless throng;

All but the splendid Irishman,

So gentle, brave, and strong:
And him to lone Lanherne they took,
Where manly tears did fall,

While other rites his ashes blessed

Within that ancient wall.

Henry Sewell Stokes.

Salisbury.

THE CAVALIER'S ESCAPE.

TRAMPLE! trample! went the roan,
Trap! trap! went the gray;

But pad! pad! pad! like a thing that was mad,
My chestnut broke away.

It was just five miles from Salisbury town,

And but one hour to day.

Thud! thud! came on the heavy roan,

Rap! rap! the mettled gray;

But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,
That she showed them all the way.

Spur on! spur on! —I doffed my hat,
And wished them all good day.

They splashed through miry rut and pool,—
Splintered through fence and rail;

But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,
I saw them droop and tail.

To Salisbury town-but a mile of down,
Once over this brook and rail.

Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs
Past the walls of mossy stone;

The roan flew on at a staggering pace,
But blood is better than bone.

I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur,
For I knew it was all my own.

But trample! trample! came their steeds,
And I saw their wolfs' eyes burn;

I felt like a royal hart at bay,

And made me ready to turn.

I looked where highest grew the may,
And deepest arched the fern.

I flew at the first knave's sallow throat;
One blow, and he was down.

The second rogue fired twice, and missed;
I sliced the villain's crown.

Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate,
Fast, fast to Salisbury town!

Pad! pad! they came on the level sward,
Thud! thud! upon the sand;

With a gleam of swords, and a burning match,
And a shaking of flag and hand :

But one long bound, and I passed the gate,
Safe from the canting band.

Walter Thornbury.

HER

SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.

ERE stood the city of the dead; look round, Dost thou not mark a visionary band, Druids and bards upon the summits stand, Of the majestic and time-hallowed mound? Hark! heard ye not at times the acclaiming word Of harps, as when those bards, in white array, Hailed the ascending lord of light and day! Here o'er the clouds the first cathedral rose, Whose prelates now in yonder fane repose, Among the mighty of years passed away; For there her latest seat Religion chose, There still to heaven ascends the holy lay, And never may those shrines in dust and silence close. William Lisle Bowles.

THE BLIND MAN OF SALISBURY CATHEDRAL.

THERE

is a poor blind man, who every day, In summer sunshine or in winter's rain,

Duly as tolls the bell, to the high fane

Explores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,

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