Porlock.

PORLOCK.

PORLOCK! thy verdant vale so fair to sight,

Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown, The waters that roll musically down

Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight
Recalls to memory, and the channel gray
Circling its surges in thy level bay.
Porlock! I also shall forget thee not,

Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined;
But often shall hereafter call to mind

How here, a patient prisoner, 't was my lot
To wear the lonely, lingering close of day,
Making my sonnet by the alehouse fire,
Whilst Idleness and Solitude inspire
Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away.

Robert Southey.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF E. S.

WRITTEN AT WORTHY FARM, NEAR PORLOCK, SOMERSET.

HIS side the brow of yon sea-bounding hill

THIS

There is an alley overarched with green,

Where thick-grown briers entwine themselves at will; There, twinkling through the under-flowers, is seen The ever-shaking ocean far below;

And on the upper side, a rocky wall

Where deepest mosses and lithe ivies grow,
And honeysuckle-blooms in clusters fall.
There walked I when I last remembered thee;
And all too joyfully came o'er my mind
Moments of pleasure by the southern sea,
By our young lives two summers left behind;
Ah, sad-sweet memory, for that very day
The gloom came on which may not pass away.
Henry Alford.

Preston.

FILIAL PIETY.

ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL.

NTOUCHED through all severity of cold;

UNTO

Inviolate, whate'er the cottage hearth
Might need for comfort or for festal mirth;
That pile of turf is half a century old:
Yes, traveller! fifty winters have been told

Since suddenly the dart of death went forth

'Gainst him who raised it, his last work on earth:

Thence has it, with the son, so strong a hold
Upon his father's memory, that his hands,

Through reverence, touch it only to repair

Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air, In annual renovation thus it stands,

Rude mausoleum! but wrens nestle there,

And redbreasts warble when sweet sounds are rare.

William Wordsworth.

THE

PRESTON MILLS.

day was fair, the cannon roared, Cold blew the bracing north,

And Preston's Mills, by thousands, poured

Their little captives forth.

All in their best they paced the street,
All glad that they were free;

And sung a song with voices sweet,
They sung of Liberty!

Like 66

But from their lips the rose had fled,
death-in-life" they smiled;
And still, as each passed by, I said,
Alas! is that a child?

Flags waved, and men a ghastly crew
Marched with them, side by side :
While hand in hand, and two by two,

They moved,

a living tide.

Thousands and thousands, all so white!

With eyes so glazed and dull!

O God! it was indeed a sight
Too sadly beautiful!

And O, the pang their voices gave

Refuses to depart!

This is a wailing for the grave,

I whispered to my heart!

It was as if, where roses blushed,
A sudden blasting gale

O'er fields of bloom had rudely rushed,
And turned the roses pale.

It was as if in glen and grove
The wild birds sadly sung;
And every linnet mourned its love,
And every thrush its young.

It was as if in dungeon gloom,
Where chained despair reclined,
A sound came from the living tomb,
And hymned the passing wind.

And while they sang, and though they smiled,
My soul groaned heavily,-

O, who would be or have a child?

A mother who would be?

Ebenezer Elliott.

Ramsgate.

TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON

ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE.

HAT ocean you have late surveyed,

THAT

Those rocks I too have seen;

But I afflicted and dismayed,

You tranquil and serene.

You from the flood-controlling steep
Saw stretched before your view,
With conscious joy, the threatening deep,
No longer such to you.

To me the waves that ceaseless broke

Upon the dangerous coast
Hoarsely and ominously spoke
Of all my treasure lost.

Your sea of troubles you have past,
And found the peaceful shore;
I, tempest-tossed, and wrecked at last,
Come home to port no more.

William Cowper.

Ravensworth.

ALLEN-A-DALE.

ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning,

Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Come read me my riddle! come hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.