Which so amaze the skies,

Dimming their lightness.

The raging tempests are calm
When she speaketh,

Such most delightsome balm
From her lips breaketh.

In all our Brittany

There's not a fairer,

Nor can you fit any,

Should you compare her.

Angels her eyelids keep,

All hearts surprising;

Which look while she doth sleep

Like the sun's rising:

She alone of her kind

Knoweth true measure,

And her unmatched mind

Is heaven's treasure.

Fair Dove and Darwent clear,
Boast ye your beauties,

To Trent your mistress here
Yet pay your duties.

My love was higher born

Towards the full fountains,

Yet she doth moorland scorn

And the Peak mountains;

Nor would she none should dream Where she abideth,

Humble as is the stream

Which by her slideth.

Yet my poor rustic Muse,
Nothing can move her,
Nor the means I can use,

Though her true lover:
Many a long winter's night
Have I waked for her,

Yet this my piteous plight
Nothing can stir her.

All thy sands, silver Trent,
Down to the Humber,

The sighs that I have spent
Never can number.

CHORUS. On thy bank
In a rank

Let thy swans sing her,

And with their music

Along let them bring her.

THE TRENT.

Michael Drayton.

NCE more, O Trent! along thy pebbly marge

ONCE

A pensive invalid, reduced, and pale,

From the close sick-room newly let at large,
Wooes to his wan-worn cheek the pleasant gale.
O, to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat!
And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail,
How wildly novel on his senses float!

It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As lone he watched the taper's sickly gleam,
And at his casement heard, with wild affright,
The owl's dull wing and melancholy scream,
On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire,
Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.
Henry Kirke White.

Troston.

TROSTON HALL.

AR from the busy hum of men away,

FAR

Secluded here, naught of the world I see; And almost doubt if such a place there be As London's trading town, or Paris gay, Surcharged with crowds the livelong night and day. That war is going on by land and sea, That slaughter, tumult, horror, and dismay Pervade the world, now seemeth strange to me. And, as I pass the sweetly lonely hours, Estranged here from bustle, strife, and care, Surrounded but by woods and fields and flowers, While Nature's music. floats along the air, And Autumn all her various bounties pours,

I wish an erring world these scenes with me to share.

Capel Lofft.

SHE

Tunbridge.

PHEBE, THE NYMPH OF THE WELL.

HE smiled as she gave him a draught from the springlet,

Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!

But love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet;

He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her;
The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed;
Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter,
We found him eternally pledging the maid.

A preux chevalier, and but lately a cripple,
He met with his hurt where a regiment fell,
But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple
A bumper to "Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well."

Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded,
All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse;
But Love never looks on the matter as they did,
She took the brave soldier for better or worse.

And here is the home of her fondest election,

The walls may be worn, but the ivy is green; And here she has tenderly twined her affection Around a true soldier who bled for the Queen.

See, yonder he sits, where the church-bells invite us; What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?

"T is the joy of his age, and may fate so requite us When time shall have broken, or sickness, or care.

Erelong, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken
The doors of that church and that peaceful abode;
His place then no longer will know him, but hearken,
The widow and orphan appeal to their God.

Much peace will be hers. "If our lot must be lowly,
Resemble the father who's with us no more";
And only on days that are high or are holy,
She'll show him the cross that her warrior wore.

So taught, he will rather take after his father,
And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss;
And some day or other he'll bring to his mother
Victoria's gift, the Victoria Cross!

And still she 'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple
Perhaps may have lost their peculiar spell;
And often she'll quote, with complacency simple,
The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.

And then will her darling, like all good and true ones, Console and sustain her, the weak and the strong; And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones Will smile on his path as he journeys along.

Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe,

Of course of all beauty she must be the belle,If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe, He will not fall out with a draught from the well.

Frederick Locker.