Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again.

Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout,Then beaten foam flew round about,

Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at our feet; The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roofe we sate that night;

The noise of bells went sweeping by ;

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church-tower red and high, —

A lurid mark and dread to see;

And awesome bells they were to mee,

That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I,

my sonne was at my side.

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed:

And yet he moaned beneath his breath, "O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare! The waters laid thee at his doore,

Ere yet the early dawn was clear,
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strewed wrecks about the grass;
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me:
But each will mourn his own (she saith).
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more
By the reedy Lindis' shore,
"Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling,
Ere the early dews be falling;
I shall never hear her song,
"Cusha, Cusha!" all along,
Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth ;

From the meads where melick groweth,

When the water winding down.

Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver:

Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
Come uppe, Whitefoot, come uppe, Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe, Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed."

DEAD IN THE SIERRAS.

JOAQUIN MILLer.

His footprints have failed us:
Where berries are red

And madroñas are rankest

The hunter is dead.

The grizzly may pass

By his half-open door;

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To the haven under the hill:

But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

THE PASSAGE.

JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND. TRANSLATED BY MISS AUSTEN.

MANY a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave,
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades, old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in science wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;