30 HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away
With her two bairns I marked her long;
And ere yon bells began to play

Afar I heard her milking song."
He looked across the grassy sea,
To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
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 oure 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:

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO

I marked the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church tower, red and high –
A lurid mark and dread to see;

And awsome 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.

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— JEAN INGELOW.

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO

"YOUR horse is faint, my King - my lord! your gallant horse is sick

His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, oh mount apace, I pray thee mount

and fly!

Or in my arms I'll lift your grace

their trampling hoofs are

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THE LORD OF BUTRAGO

"My King! my King! you're wounded sore

from your feet;

the blood runs

But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat!
Mount Juan, for they gather fast! I hear their coming cry -
Mount, mount and ride for jeopardy — I'll save you tho' I die!

'Stand, noble steed! this hour of need be gentle as a lamb:
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth thy master dear I am
Mount Juan, mount! whate'er betide, away the bridle fling,
And plunge the rowels in his side-my horse shall save the King!

"Nay never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from

yours,

And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures !

If I should fly, and thou my King be found among the dead, How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn upon my head?

"Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, And say there's one that ran away when our good lords were slain! I leave Diego in your care — you'll fill his father's place;

Strike, strike, the spur, and never spare

your grace!"

God's blessings on

So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he;
And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;
He flung himself upon them, as they came down the hill

He died, God wot!1 but not before his sword had drunk its fill.
SPANISH Ballad.

THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN

THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN

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At the gate of old Granada, where all its bolts are barred,
At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling heard;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,
And the weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.
What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief comes there
bewailing? -

"A tower is fallen, a star is set! -Alas! alas for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw;

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go!

In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all have heard the misery. — Alas! alas for Celin!

Him yesterday a Moor did slay of Bencerrage's blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting, - around the nobles stood: The nobles of the land were by and ladies bright and fair Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share; But now the ladies all lament, and the ladies are bewailing, "For he was Granada's darling Knight, · Alas! alas for Celin!'

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil;
Behind the tambour's dismal stroke take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,
And all the people far and near cry -
"Alas! alas for Celin!"

Oh! lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall,

The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all;

D

His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies thick and dim upon his burnished mail;
And ever more the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing;
Its sound is like no earthly sound,—“Alas! alas for Celin!”

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, — the Moor beside his door,

One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore; Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they

strew

Upon the broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue;

Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud be

Now Robin he is to Nottingham bound,
With his bag hanging down to his knee,
His staff, and his coat, scarce worth a groat,
Yet merrily passéd he.

As Robin he passed the streets along,
He heard a pitiful cry;

Three brethren dear, as he did hear,

Condemned were to die.

Then Robin came to the Sheriff's house,

Some relief for to seek;

He skipt, and leapt, and capered full high,
As he went along the street.