1' 0 E '1' It Y.
THE MIDDLE MARCHES.
(" Posuit fines tuos pacem."—Psalm xlvii.)
No Warden keeps the marches From Tyneclale to the Tweed ; Broad winds the road to Scotland
Beside the streams of Rede.
Here, where some flaming roof-tree Leaped red-tongued to the sky, About the grass-grown ruins The nesting rock-doves fly.
Here, where spear-driven cattle Splashed deep to taste the cool, Only the quick-winged dipper Startles the quiet pool.
Unwatched, your flocks, 0 shepherds, Feed safe o'er many a field ; With red-brown bracken rusted Hangs Cheviot's dinted shield.
Plough, husbandman, long furrows, Fling, sower, undismayed, In groves of birch and alder Tweed sheathes his steel-bright blade.