STRATFORD-UPON-AVON, JANUARY, 1837.

WE stood upon the tomb of him whose praise

-

Time, nor oblivious thrift, nor envy chill, Nor war, nor ocean with her severing space, Shall hinder from the peopled world to fill; And thus, in fulness of our heart, we cried: God's works are wonderful, the circling sky, The rivers that with noiseless footing glide, Man's firm-built strength, and woman's liquid eye; But the high spirit that sleepeth here below, More than all beautiful and stately things, Glory to God the mighty Maker brings;

To whom alone 't was given the bounds to know Of human action, and the secret springs

Whence the deep streams of joy and sorrow flow. Henry Alford.

AT STRATFORD-UPON-AVON.

HUS spake his dust (so seemed it as I read

THUS

:

The words) Good frend for Jesus' sake forbeare (Poor ghost!) To digg the dust enclosed heare, Then came the malediction on the head

Of who so dare disturb the sacred dead.
Outside the mavis whistled strong and clear,
And, touched with the sweet glamour of the year,
The winding Avon murmured in its bed.
But in the little Stratford church the air

Was chill and dank, and on the foot-worn tomb

The evening shadows deepened momently:
Then a great awe crept on me, standing there,
As if some speechless Presence in the gloom
Was hovering, and fain would speak with me.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

ANNE HATHAWAY.

TO THE IDOL OF MY EYE AND DELIGHT OF MY HEART, ANNE HATHAWAY.

LD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,

WOULD

With love's sweet notes to grace your song,

To pierce the heart with thrilling lay,
Listen to mine Anne Hathaway!
She hath a way to sing so clear,
Phoebus might wondering stop to hear.
To melt the sad, make blithe the gay,
And nature charm, Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To breathe delight Anne hath a way.

When Envy's breath and rancorous tooth
Do soil and bite fair worth and truth,

And merit to distress betray,

To soothe the heart Anne hath a way.
She hath a way to chase despair,
To heal all grief, to cure all care,

Turn foulest night to fairest day.

Thou know'st, fond heart, Anne hath a way;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way.

Talk not of gems, the orient list,
The diamond, topaz, amethyst,
The emerald mild, the ruby gay;
Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway!
She hath a way, with her bright eye,
Their various lustres to defy,
The jewels she, and the foil they,
So sweet to look Anne hath a way;
She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way.

But were it to my fancy given

To rate her charms, I'd call them heaven;
For though a mortal made of clay,
Angels must love Anne Hathaway;
She hath a way so to control,
To rapture, the imprisoned soul,
And sweetest heaven on earth display,
That to be heaven Anne hath a way;

She hath a way,

Anne Hathaway;

To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way.

William Shakespeare.

"BRING

Stratton Tower.

THE SCROLL.

RING me," he said, "that scribe of fame,
Symeon el Siddekah his name:

With parchment skin, and pen in hand,
I would devise my Cornish land.

"Seven goodly manors, fair and wide,
Stretch from the sea to Tamar side:
And Bien-aimé, my hall and bower,
Nestles beneath tall Stratton Tower.

All these I render to my God,
By seal and signet, knife and sod:
I give and grant to church and poor,
In franc-almoign forevermore.

"Choose ye seven men among the just,
And bid them hold my lands in trust;
On Michael's morn, and Mary's day,
To deal the dole, and watch and pray.

"Then bear me coldly o'er the deep,
Mid my own people I would sleep:

Their hearts shall melt, their prayers will breathe, Where he who loved them rests beneath.

"Mould me in stone as here I lie,

My face upturned to Syria's sky:
Carve ye this good sword at my side,
And write the legend, True and tried.'

"Let mass be said, and requiem sung;
And that sweet chime I loved be rung:
Those sounds along the northern wall
Shall thrill me like a trumpet-call."

Thus said he, and at set of sun
The bold Crusader's race was run.
Seek ye his ruined hall and bower?
Then stand beneath tall Stratton Tower.

Robert Stephen Hawker.

Studland.

A DORSETSHIRE LEGEND.

THORKILL and Thorston from Jutland came

To torture us Saxons with sword and flame,
To strip our homesteads and thorps and crofts,
To burn our barns and hovels and lofts,
To fell our kine and slay our deer,
To strip the orchard and drag the mere,
To butcher our sheep and reap our corn,
To fire our coverts of fern and thorn,
Driving the wolves and boars in bands
To raven and prey on our Saxon lands. -
We had watched for their galleys day and night,
From sunrise until beacon-light;

But still the sea lay level and dead,
And never a sail came round the Head. -
We watched in vain till one autumn day,
When a woolly fog that northward lay