It swept with thunderous noises loud;
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 mee:
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."-Jean Ingelow.

THE BELL OF ZANORA.

THE ruddy sun was setting behind the Murchian hills,

The fields were warmed to splendor and golden flowed the rills.

Across the little valley, where lay the Spanish

town,

The dying sun's last blessing, a glory, floated

down.

Amid the fields the peasants led in the grazing

kine,

And faintly came a tinkling as trudged the peaceful line.

Upon the height the convent, a ruin old and gray, Towered upward, and its shadow across the valley lay.

Before that ancient ruin, prone on the scented

grass,

A boy of fifteen summers watched day's bright glory pass:

The lad was there on duty and oft about him scanned.

Zanora feared the coming of robber Gomez's

band;

Of Gomez, fierce and heartless, the terror of the

vale,

Whose name made women shudder and bravest men grow pale.

Unto the town a rumor that Gomez fierce would

come

And sack the peaceful hamlet made stoutest hearts all dumb.

The peasants cleaned their firelocks, the women watched and prayed

That the band of robber Gomez upon its path be

stayed.

Yet time wore on, and scathless still stood the little town,

But from its ancient convent a watcher still looked

down.

For clear from 'neath its portals each roadway might be scanned,

And there from morn till night they watched for Gomez's band.

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."-Jean Ingelow.

THE BELL OF ZANORA.

THE ruddy sun was setting behind the Murchian hills,

The fields were warmed to splendor and golden flowed the rills.

Across the little valley, where lay the Spanish

town,

The dying sun's last blessing, a glory, floated

down.

Amid the fields the peasants led in the grazing

kine,

And faintly came a tinkling as trudged the peaceful line.