BRADDAN VICARAGE.

I wonder if in that fair isle,

Some child is growing now, like me

When I was child: care-pricked, yet healed the while
With balm of rock and sea.

I wonder if the purple ring
That rises on a belt of blue

Provokes the little bashful thing

To guess what may ensue,

When he has pierced the screen, and holds the further clue.

I wonder if beyond the verge

He dim conjectures England's coast:

The land of Edwards and of Henries, scourge

Of insolent foemen, at the most

Faint caught where Cumbria looms a geographic ghost.

I wonder if to him the sycamore

Is full of green and tender light;

If the gnarled ash stands stunted at the door,
By salt sea-blast defrauded of its right;
If budding larches feed the hunger of his sight.

I wonder if to him the dewy globes

Like mercury nestle in the caper leaf;
If, when the white narcissus dons its robes,
It soothes his childish grief;

If silver plates the birch, gold rustles in the sheaf.

I wonder if to him the heath-clad mountain
With crimson pigment fills the sensuous cells;
If like full bubbles from an emerald fountain
Gorse-bloom luxuriant wells;

If God with trenchant forms the insolent lushness quells.

I wonder if he loves that Captain bold

Who has the horny hand,

Who swears the mighty oath, who well can hold,
Half-drunk, serene command,

And guide his straining bark to refuge of the land.

I wonder if he thinks the world has aught

Of strong, or nobly wise,

Like him by whom the invisible land is caught

With instinct true, nor storms, nor midnight skies Avert the settled aim, or daunt the keen emprise.

I wonder if he deems the English men
A higher type beyond his reach,
Imperial blood, by Heaven ordained with pen
And sword the populous world to teach;

If awed he hears the tones as of an alien speech;

Ah! crude, undisciplined, when thou shalt know
What good is in this England, still of joys
The chiefest count it thou wast nurtured so

That thou may'st keep the larger equipoise,
And stand outside these nations and their noise.

SCARLETT Rocks.

I thought of life, the outer and the inner,

As I was walking by the sea:

How vague, unshapen this, and that, though thinner, Yet hard and clear in its rigidity.

Then took I up the fragment of a shell,

And saw its accurate loveliness,

And searched its filmy lines, its pearly cell,
And all that keen contention to express

A finite thought. And then I recognised

God's working in the shell from root to rim, And said :-'He works till He has realised

O Heaven! if I could only work like Him!'

CLIFTON.

I'm here at Clifton, grinding at the mill

My feet for thrice nine barren years have trod;, But there are rocks and waves at Scarlett still, And gorse runs riot in Glen Chass-thank God!

Alert, I seek exactitude of rule,

I step, and square my shoulders with the squad ;
But there are blaeberries on old Barrule,

And Langness has its heather still-thank God!
There is no silence here: the truculent quack
Insists with acrid shriek my ears to prod,
And, if I stop them, fumes; but there's no lack
Of silence still on Carraghyn--thank God!

Pragmatic fibs surround my soul, and bate it

With measured phrase, that asks the assenting nod; I rise, and say the bitter thing, and hate it

But Wordsworth's castle's still at Peel-thank God!

O broken life! O wretched bits of being,

Unrhythmic, patched, the even and the odd !

But Bradda still has lichens worth the seeing,

And thunder in her caves-thank God! thank God!

THE INTERCEPTED SALUTE.

A little maiden met me in the lane,
And smiled a smile so very fain,

So full of trust and happiness,

I could not choose but bless

The child, that she should have such grace

To laugh into my face.

She never could have known me; but I thought

It was the common joy that wrought

Within the little creature's heart,

As who should say:-'Thou art

As I; the heaven is bright above us;
And there is God to love us.

And I am but a little gleeful maid,
And thou art big, and old, and staid;
But the blue hills have made thee mild
As is a little child.

Wherefore I laugh that thou may'st see-
O, laugh! O, laugh with me!'

A pretty challenge! Then I turned me round,
And straight the sober truth I found.

For I was not alone; behind me stood,

Beneath his load of wood,

He that of right the smile possessed—
Her father manifest.

O, blest be God! that such an overplus
Of joy is given to us:

That that sweet innocent

Gave me the gift she never meant,
A gift secure and permanent !
For, howsoe'er the smile had birth,
It is an added glory on the earth.

[From Tommy Big-Eyes.]

BACH'S FUGUES.

Fuge dear heart!

What a start!

Well, obsarve! away goes a scrap,

Just a piece of a tune, like a little chap

That runs from his mammy; but mind the row
There'll be about that chap just now

Off he goes! but whether or not,
The mother is after him like a shot-
Run, you rascal, the fast you're able!
But she nearly nabs him at the gable;
But missin' him after all: and then
He'll give her the imperince of sin :

And he'll duck and he'll dive, and he'll dodge and he'll dip,

And he'll make a run, and he'll give her the slip,

And back again, and turnin' and mockin',

And imitatin' her most shockin',

Every way she's movin', you know:

That's just the way this tune 'll go;
Imitatin', changin', hidin',

Doublin' upon itself, dividin'

And other tunes comin' wantin' to dance with it,
But haven't the very smallest chance with it-
It's that slippy and swivel-up, up, up!
Down, down, down! the little pup-
Friskin', whiskin'; and then as solemn,
Like marchin' in a double column,

Like a funeral: or, rather,

If you'll think of this imp, it's like the father
Comin' out to give it him, and his heavy feet
Soundin' like thunder on the street.

And he's caught at last, and they all sing out
Like the very mischief, and dance and shout,
And caper away there most surprisin',

And ends in a terrible rejisin'.

That's Backs, that's fuges-aw, that's fine-
But never mind! never mind!

[From Clevedon Verses.]

NORTON WOOD (DORA'S BIRTHDAY).

In Norton wood the sun was bright,
In Norton wood the air was light,

And meek anemonies,

Kissed by the April breeze,

Were trembling left and right.

Ah, vigorous year!

Ah, primrose dear
With smile so arch!

Ah, budding larch!

Ah, hyacinth so blue,

We also must make free with you!