There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,
All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;
And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free
To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel torture from Indian folk of old;
Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,
Who flog men and keelhaul them, and starve them to the bone.

O the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold
And the colibris and parrots they were gorgeous to behold;
And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,
To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

O sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,
A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,
With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar
Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore,

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be ;
So the King's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.
All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms at

night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,

Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by,

And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I can't tell where;
One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there :
If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the main,
To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

THE SANDS of Dee.

[From Alton Locke.]

'O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee;'

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land-
And never home came she.

'Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-
A tress o' golden hair,

O' drowned maiden's hair,

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,
Among the stakes on Dee.'

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee.

A FAREWELL.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you

For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever

One grand, sweet song.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET.

The world goes up and the world goes down,
And the sunshine follows the rain;

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown
Can never come over again,

Sweet wife;

No, never come over again.

For woman is warm though man be cold,
And the night will hallow the day!

Till the heart which at even was weary and cold
Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet wife;

To its work in the morning gay.

AIRLY BEACON.

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon ;
O the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;

O the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;

O the weary haunt for me,

All alone on Airly Beacon
With his baby on my knee!

A BOAT-SONG.

[From Hypatia.]

Loose the sail, rest the oar, float away down,
Fleeting and gliding by tower and town.

Life is so short at best! snatch, while thou canst, thy rest,
Sleeping by me.

[From The Water-Babies.]

THE SONG OF MADAME DO-AS-YOU-WOULD-BE-DONE-BY.

I once had a sweet little doll, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world;

Her cheeks were so red and so white, dears,
And her hair was so charmingly curled.
But I lost my poor little doll, dears,

As I played in the heath one day;

And I cried for her more than a week, dears,
But I never could find where she lay.

I found my poor little doll, dears,

As I played in the heath one day :
Folks say she is terribly changed, dears,
For her paint is all washed away,
And her arm trodden off by the cows, dears,
And her hair not the least bit curled :
Yet, for old sake's sake, she is still, dears,
The prettiest doll in the world.

THE 'OLD, OLD SONG.'

When all the world is young, lad,

And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,

And every lass a queen;

Then hey for boot and horse, lad,

And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,

And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down :
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maimed among :
God grant you find one face there
. You loved when all was young.

SYDNEY DOBELL.

[SYDNEY DOBELL was born at Cranbrook in Kent in 1824, was educated at home, and for the greater part of his life was engaged in business in Gloucestershire. His first published poem The Roman, inspired by his lifelong enthusiasm for the Italian cause, appeared in 1850; his next, Balder, was finished in 1853. In 1855 he wrote in conjunction with Alexander Smith a series of sonnets, suggested by the Crimean struggle. This volume was followed by another, of descriptive and lyrical verses, on the same theme, England in Time of War. Subsequently his health gave way, and after living for several years, the winters of which he passed abroad, more or less in the condition of an invalid, he died at Barton End House near Nailsworth, in 1874. A complete edition of his poems was published in 1875-]

The above outline in great measure accounts for the fact that most of Dobell's poetry was the product of his earlier years— the last eighteen of his life having been spent in forced abstinence from literary labour. The success of his first considerable work, The Roman, was rapid and unmistakable. The theme and its treatment, in accord with popular sentiment, in no less degree the flow of the lyrics, the strong sweep of the graver verse, the frequent richness of the imagery, enlisted the favour alike of the general public and of discerning critics. With defects readily condoned to the writer's youth, and many minor merits, its main charm lay in the novelty of its aim. It was hailed as the product of a man of refined culture, whose sympathies went beyond the mere love of ' harmony in tones and numbers' lisp,' and crossed the 'silver streak' to welcome the wider movements of his age. The Roman was continental in a sense that the work of none of our poets, since Byron, had been. Balder, the embodiment of the author's deepest though still somewhat chaotic thought, was less fortunate. The incomplete and painful plot was felt to be unnatural, and many of the details were disagreeable. The luxuriance of its imagery was like cloth of gold thrown over the limbs of a Frankenstein. But few contemporary English poets had scaled the