For vague and flickering are her thoughts, her soul is on the wing For heaven, and has but little heed for earth or earthly thing. "My father, dost thou hear their shriek? dost hear their drowning cry?" "No, dearest, no; 't was but the scream of the curlew flitting by." Poor panting, fluttering, hectic thing, thy tossings soon will cease; Thou art passing through a troubled sea, but to a land of peace! And he, who to a shipwrecked world brought rescue, oh, may he Be near thy dying pillow now, sweet Grace, to succor thee! HENRY FRANCIS LYTE. BROUGH BELLS. ROBERT SOUTHEY was born at Bristol, England, Aug. 12, 1774, and died March 21, 1843. He was, after 1813, the poet laureate. He was an indefatigable literary worker, and left many volumes of prose and verse. ONE day to Helbeck I had strolled And, resting in its rocky grove, Sat listening to the rills; The while, to their sweet undersong, The birds sang blithe around, And the soft west-wind awoke the wood Louder or fainter, as it rose The harmony of merry bells From Brough that pleasant morn. "Why are the merry bells of Brough, My friend, so few?" said I; "They disappoint the expectant ear Which they should gratify. "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; 'Tis still one, two, three, four; Mellow and silvery are the tones, But I wish the bells were more!" "What, art thou critical?" quoth he; "Eschew that heart's disease That seeketh for displeasure Where the intent hath been to please. "By those four bells there hangs a tale, Which, being told, I guess, Will make thee hear their scanty peal With proper thankfulness. "Not by the Cliffords were they given, Not by the Tufton's line; Thou hearest in that peal the crune "On Stanemore's side, one summer eve, "Behind them, on the lowland's verge, "Slowly they came in long array, "The hills returned that lonely sound Upon the tranquil air; The only sound it was, which then "Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine, Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then ; 'How loudly to the hills he crunes, That crune to him again? "Think'st thou, if yon whole herd at once Their voices should combine, Were they at Brough, that we might not Hear plainly from this upland spot That cruning of the kine?' "That were a crune. indeed,' replied "Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs “Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, From yon dumb steeple crune, And thou and I on this hillside Will listen to their tune.' "So, while the merry bells of Brough For many an age ring on, "As one who in his later years, Contented with enough, Gave freely what he well could spare To buy the bells of Brough. "Thus it hath proved: three hundred years "More pleasure," I returned, "shall I "He knew how wholesome it would be, "What feelings and what impulses "That when his brethren were convened To meet for social prayer, He too, admonished by the call, "Or when a glad thanksgiving sound, "For victory by sea or land, And happy peace at length, Peace by his country's valor won, And 'stablished by her strength, "When such exultant peals were borne Upon the mountain air, The sound should stir his blood, and give Such thoughts were in the old man's mind, And had I store of wealth, methinks, Another herd of kine, John Brunskill, I would freely give, That they may crune with thine. ROBERT SOUTHEY. "CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO NIGHT." This favorite piece was written in April, 1867, after the author had read the incident upon which it is founded in a story of the time of Cromwell. MISS ROSE HARTWICK, of Litchfield, Mich., the author, then in her seventeenth year, was born July 18, 1850. In 1871 she was married to Mr. Edmund C. Thorpe. SLOWLY England's sun was setting o'er the hill-tops far away. Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, He with footsteps slow and weary, - she with sunny, floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur, few must not ring to-night." "Cur |