“Hold! masters, hold! ye tarry here,
What corse is laid on your solemn bier?
Yon minster-ground were a calmer grave
Than the roving bark or the weedy wave!"

Strong vows we made to our sister dead
To hew in fair France her narrow bed;
And her angry ghost will win no rest
If your Cornish earth lie on her breast."

They rend that pall in the glaring light:
By St. Michael of Carne! 't was an awful sight!
For those folded hands were meekly laid

On the silent breast of a shrouded maid.

"God speed, my masters, your mournful way!
Go, bury your dead where best ye may:
But the Norroway barks are over the deep,
So we watch and ward from our guarded steep."

Who comes with weapon? who comes with steed?
Ye may hear far off their clanking speed;
What knight in steel is thundering on?
Ye may know the voice of the grim Sir John.

"Saw ye my daughter, my Gwennah bright,
Borne out for dead at the deep of night?"
Too late! too late!" cried the warder pale,
"Lo! the full deck, and the rushing sail!"

They have roused that maid from her trance of sleep, They have spread their sails to the roaring deep; Watch ye, and ward ye! with wind and tide,

Fitz-Walter hath won his Cornish bride.

Robert Stephen Hawker.

WHEN

Trent, the River.

THE TRENT.

HEN now the neighboring floods willed Wrekin to suppress

His style, or they were like to surfeit with excess,
And time had brought about that now they all began
To listen to a long-told prophecy, which ran
Of Moreland, that she might live prosperously to see
A river born of her, who well might reckoned be
The third of this large isle: which saw did first arise
From Arden, in those days delivering prophecies.

*

*

*

*

Then of her

Why shouldst thou all this while the prophecy defer,
Who bearing many springs, which pretty rivers grew,
She could not be content until she fully knew

Which child it was of hers (born under such a fate)
As should in time be raised unto that high estate ?
(I fain would have you think that this was long ago,
When many a river now that furiously doth flow
Had scarcely learned to creep), and therefore she doth will
Wise Arden, from the depth of her abundant skill,
To tell her which of these her rills it was she meant.
To satisfy her will, the wizard answers, Trent.
For, as a skilful seer, the aged forest wist,

A more than usual power did in that name consist,
Which thirty doth import: by which she thus divined,
There should be found in her of fishes thirty kind;

And thirty Abbeys great, in places fat and rank, Should in succeeding time be builded on her bank; And thirty several streams from many a sundry way Unto her greatness should their watery tribute pay. Michael Drayton.

NEAR

THE TRENT.

TEAR to the silver Trent
Sirena dwelleth,

She to whom nature lent
All that excelleth;

By which the Muses late,
And the neat Graces,

Have for their greater state
Taken their places;

Twisting an anadem,

Wherewith to crown her,

As it belonged to them

Most to renown her.

CHORUS.

On thy bank

In a rank

Let thy swans sing her,

And with their music

Along let them bring her.

Tagus and Pactolus

Are to thee debtor,

Nor for their gold to us

Are they the better;

Henceforth of all the rest,

Be thou the river,

Which, as the daintiest,

Puts them down ever.

For as my precious one

O'er thee doth travel,

She to pearl paragon
Turneth thy gravel.

Our mournful Philomel,
That rarest tuner,

Henceforth in April

Shall wake the sooner;

And to her shall complain
From the thick cover,

Redoubling every strain
Over and over:

For when my love too long
Her chamber keepeth;

As though it suffered wrong,
The morning weepeth.

Oft have I seen the sun,

To do her honor,

Fix himself at his noon
To look upon her,

And hath gilt every grove,
Every hill near her,

With his flames from above,

Striving to cheer her:

And when she from his sight
Hath herself turnéd,

He, as it had been night,

In clouds hath mournéd.

The verdant meads are seen,

When she doth view them,

In fresh and gallant green

Strait to renew them,

And every little grass

Broad itself spreadeth,

Proud that this bonny lass
Upon it treadeth :

Nor flower is so sweet

In this large cincture,

But it upon her feet

Leaveth some tincture.

The fishes in the flood,

When she doth angle,

For the hook strive agood
Them to entangle;

And leaping on the land

From the clear water,

Their scales upon the sand
Lavishly scatter;

Therewith to pave the mould
Whereon she passes,

So herself to behold

As in her glasses.

When she looks out by night
The stars stand gazing,

Like comets to our sight

Fearfully blazing;

As wondering at her eyes,

With their much brightness,