17 SEPTEMBER 1881, Page 13

POETRY.

LING HOLME WINDERMERE.

THE rivers feed thee from the valleys round,

And rills from clustering mountains, Windermere; And in thy wind-stirred waters moves the sound Of life from all thy sources, far or near.

Thy deep, low murmurs to the listening ear Rise in harmonic echoes, and resound The pattering becks that from the far cliff bound, The roaring fall, the wind in grasses sere.

Full-memoried lake ! 1 would that this my soul, Or whatsoe'er in me is most of me, Could treasure ev'n as thou the echoes past; Learning a fuller utterance as years roll, Tender from tears, yet glad with innocent glee;— And Love, the first tone, lingering to the last !

F. W. B.