PORLOCK! Porlock. PORLOCK. thy verdant vale so fair to sight, Thy lofty hills which fern and furze imbrown, The waters that roll musically down Thy woody glens, the traveller with delight Here by the unwelcome summer rain confined; Dull rhymes to pass the duller hours away. Robert Southey. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF E. S. WRITTEN AT WORTHY FARM, NEAR PORLOCK, SOMERSET. HIS side the brow of yon sea-bounding hill THIS There is an alley overarched with green, Where thick-grown briers entwine themselves at will; There, twinkling through the under-flowers, is seen The ever-shaking ocean far below; And on the upper side, a rocky wall Where deepest mosses and lithe ivies grow, The gloom came on which may not pass away. Henry Alford. Preston. FILIAL PIETY. ON THE WAYSIDE BETWEEN PRESTON AND LIVERPOOL. UNTOUCH [NTOUCHED through all severity of cold; Since suddenly the dart of death went forth 'Gainst him who raised it, his last work on earth: Thence has it, with the son, so strong a hold Upon his father's memory, that his hands, Through reverence, touch it only to repair Its waste. Though crumbling with each breath of air, In annual renovation thus it stands, Rude mausoleum! but wrens nestle there, And redbreasts warble when sweet sounds are rare. William Wordsworth. PRESTON MILLS. THE day was fair, the cannon roared, blew the bracing north, And Preston's Mills, by thousands, poured Their little captives forth. All in their best they paced the street, And sung a song with voices sweet, - But from their lips the rose had fled, Flags waved, and men a ghastly crew Marched with them, side by side: While hand in hand, and two by two, They moved, a living tide. Thousands and thousands, all so white! With eyes so glazed and dull ! O God! it was indeed a sight And O, the pang their voices gave Refuses to depart! This is a wailing for the grave, I whispered to my heart! It was as if, where roses blushed, A sudden blasting gale O'er fields of bloom had rudely rushed, It was as if in glen and grove It was as if in dungeon gloom, And while they sang, and though they smiled, O, who would be or have a child? A mother who would be? Ebenezer Elliott. Ramsgate. TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE. HAT ocean you have late surveyed, THAT Those rocks I too have seen; But I afflicted and dismayed, You tranquil and serene. You from the flood-controlling steep To me the waves that ceaseless broke Upon the dangerous coast Your sea of troubles you have past, William Cowper. Ravensworth. ALLEN-A-DALE. ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Come read me my riddle! come hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, |