POETRY.

ON THE RIVER.

WHY have you brought me here, you eager, adventurous darling ? Why did you lure me away out of the garden at home ?

Was it to show me your skiff, that lies in the shade of the willows Under this cool green slope, hid from the rush of the weir ?

Truly, a snug little boat! and ready, I see, for a voyage :

There are the trim, tried oars, there are the cushions for you!

Come, I will row you out from the creek to the full mid-channel ; This, in an evening hour, surely you cannot refuse ?

Now we are here on the main; and see how the broad, bright water Warms to a rosy red, caught from the westering clouds !

See how the grasses bend, and the ripples run up to the shore- line,

Dancing and dimpling along, making their curtsy to you! Look, too, at that great barge, just rounding a curve of the river—

Silent, majestic, slow, sure of its steady advance : Look, on the bank above, at the tall dark forms of the horses, Straining their sinewy limbs, battling and baffling the tide ! Look at the woman who steers, picturesque in her pink hood.

bonnet, Wielding her strong brown arms, matronly massive and bare; One arm clasping her babe, and the other held firm to the tiller : She is a working wife, she is a mother indeed; And from the cabin astern, the clear blue smoke of its incense Breathes of a welcome within, warm as the heart of the dame. Ah, if they only knew, that woman, and he with the horses, How in a life like theirs all that we seek for appears ! Leisure, and quiet, and peace ; a free fair union of labour,

Far from the fume and stress, far from the follies, of town : Moving at ease each day through a land as lovely as this is—

Husband and wife and child, everywhere, always, at home !

But we are idling here, and you have not told me your pleasure : Shall we go up, or down ? Where would you like me to land ? Shall I row on to the wood, where Launcelot weary and wounded Lay on his wolfskin bed, nursed by the hapless Elaine ? Shall we go up to the hill, where the Druids have left us a menhir ?

No—that is far too old : what are the Druids to us ? We will away with the stream, and float by the head of the mill- race Down to the Abbey meads ; there let us linger and land.

For 'tis a place of rest, which the good knight, Raoul de Calva, Built in his far-off days, under the sheltering hills ; Built to be sacred and still, and helpful and hallow'd for ever, Here in a valley of streams, safe from the ravage of war. Little he dreamt of the time when the ruthless ruffianly Tudor Working his evil will, wrought for the good of us all ; Ending what must have an end, for the soul of its beauty had vanish'd, Passing to other forms cleanlier, simpler, and sane : Passing indeed—but a saint would have pitied the good that was left there, Would not have wrought like him, reckless of right and of wrong, Who with the hook in his nose, and the unseen bridle to guide him, Raged as a devil must rage, chain'd to the Chariot of God.

Well, if the spirit have gone, at least we inherit the ruins; Lovelier they than of old—touch'd by the pathos of Time; Telling their tale, as the face of a fair and loveable woman Tells of her own sweet life, brightest and best in decay.

So will your young face look—but I shall not live to behold it—

When in the distant years you may come hither again; Girt with a circle of friends, and with children precious in your eyes,

Even as now, dear child, you are a treasure to mine. 9 James Russell Lowell and his Friends. By Elwar■I Everett INte.

ARTHUR MUNBY. [IGs.]