Tamar, the River.

THE TAMAR SPRING.

THE Source of this storied river of the West is on a rushy knoll, in a moorland of this parish. The Torridge also flows from the selfsame mound.

NOUNT of a rushing river! wild-flowers wreathe

FOUNT

The home where thy first waters sunlight claim : The lark sits hushed beside thee, while I breathe, Sweet Tamar Spring! the music of thy name.

On through thy goodly channel, on to the sea!
Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough;
But nevermore with footstep pure and free,
Or face so meek with happiness as now.

Fair is the future scenery of thy days,

Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride: Depths that give back the soft-eyed violets' gaze, Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide.

Thine, leafy Tetcott, and those neighboring walls,
Noble Northumberland's embowered domain;
Thine, Cartha Martha, Morwell's rocky falls,
Storied Cotehele, and Ocean's loveliest plain.

Yet false the vision, and untrue the dream,

That lures thee from thy native wilds to stray: A thousand griefs will mingle with that stream,

Unnumbered hearts shall sigh those waves away.

Scenes fierce with men thy seaward current laves, Harsh multitudes will throng thy gentle brink; Back with the grieving concourse of thy waves, Home to the waters of thy childhood shrink.

Thou heedest not! thy dream is of the shore,

Thy heart is quick with life; on to the sea!
How will the voice of thy far streams implore,
Again amid these peaceful weeds to be!

My soul! my soul! a happier choice be thine,
Thine the hushed valley and the lonely sod;
False dream, far vision, hollow hope resign,
Fast by our Tamar Spring, alone with God!

Robert Stephen Hawker.

Tamworth.

PLAIN NEAR TAMWORTH.

Enter, with drum and colors, RICHMOND, OXFORD, SIR JAMES BLUNT, SIR WALTER HERBERT, and others, with Forces, marching.

RICHMO

ICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends,

Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny,

Thus far into the bowels of the land

Have we march'd on without impediment;

And here receive we from our father Stanley
Lines of fair comfort and encouragement.
The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar,

That spoil'd your summer-fields and fruitful vines,

Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms, this foul swine

Lies now even in the centre of this isle,

Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn.
From Tamworth thither is but one day's march;
In God's name, cheerly on, courageous friends,
To reap the harvest of perpetual peace

By this one bloody trial of sharp war.

OXF. Every man's conscience is a thousand men, To fight against that guilty homicide.

HERB. I doubt not but his friends will turn to us. BLUNT. He hath no friends but who are friends for fear;

Which, in his dearest need, will fly from him.

RICHM. All for our vantage: then, in God's name,

march.

True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings, Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. William Shakespeare.

THEY

Taunton.

FOR A MONUMENT AT TAUNTON.

HEY suffered here whom Jeffreys doomed to death In mockery of all justice, when the judge

Unjust, subservient to a cruel king,

Performed his work of blood. They suffered here,
The victims of that judge and of that king;

In mockery of all justice, here they bled,
Unheard. But not unpitied, nor of God
Unseen, the innocent suffered; not unheard
The innocent blood cried vengeance; for at length
The indignant nation in its power arose,
Resistless. Then that wicked judge took flight,
Disguised in vain: not always is the Lord
Slow to revenge. A miserable man,

He fell beneath the people's rage, and still
The children curse his memory. From the throne
The obdurate bigot who commissioned him,
Inhuman James, was driven. He lived to drag
Long years of frustrate hope; he lived to load
More blood upon his soul. Let tell the Boyne,
Let Londonderry tell, his guilt and shame;
And that immortal day when on thy shores,
La Hogue, the purple ocean dashed the dead!

Robert Southey.

TAUNTON DENE.

WEET Taunton Dene! thy smiling fields
Once more with merry accents ring;

Once more reviving Nature yields
Her tribute to the smiling spring.
The small birds in the woodland sing,
The ploughman turns the kindly green,
And Pleasure waves her resistless wing
Among thy groves, sweet Taunton Dene.
But peace abides with Him alone

Who rules with calm, resistless power;

Through all creation's boundless zone,
From rolling sphere to garden flower.
Nor falls in spring the welcome shower
Unwilled of Him, nor tempest blows,

Nor wind within the fragrant bower
Can rend a leaf from summer rose.

Sweet Taunton Dene! O, long abide

In thy fair vale delights like these!
And long may Tone's smooth waters glide
By smiling cots and hearts at ease!
Be thine the joy of rustic peace,

Each sound that haunts the woodland scene;
And blithe beneath thy bowering trees
The dance at eve, Sweet Taunton Dene !

Tavy, the River.

THE TAVY.

Gerald Griffin.

A

LITTLE

grove

is seated on the marge

Of Tavy's streame, not over thicke nor large, Where every morn a quire of Silvans sung, And leaves to chatt'ring winds serv'd as a tongue, By whom the water runs in many a ring, As if it fain would stay to heare them sing, And on the top a thousand young birds flye, To be instructed in their harmony. Neere to the end of this all-joysome grove A dainty circled plot seem'd as it strove