Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on,

Till all the welkin rang again,

(ff.) "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)

(ff.) "The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,
The rising tide comes on apace,

And boats adrift in yonder towne

Go sailing uppe the market-place."
He shook as one that looks on death:
"God save you, mother!" straight he saith;
"Where is my wife, Elizabeth ?"

"Good sonne, where Lindis winds away,

With her two bairns I marked her long;

And ere yon bells beganne to play,
Afar I heard her milking song."

He looked across the grassy sea,
To right, to left, (f.) "Ho Enderby!"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"

With that he cried and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre reared his crest,
And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
It swept with thunderous noises loud;
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis backward pressed,
Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;

Then madly at the eygre's breast

Flung uppe her weltering walls again.
Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-

Then beaten foam flew round about

Then all the mighty floods were out.

So farre, so fast the eygre drave,

The heart had hardly time to beat
Before a shallow seething wave

Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:

(>)

(f.)

The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sate that night,
The noise of bells went sweeping by:
I marked the lofty beacon-light

Stream from the church-tower red and high

A lurid mark, and dread to see;

And awsome bells they were to mee,
That in the dark rang "Enderby."

They rang the sailor lads to guide

From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
And I-my sonne was at my side,

And yet the ruddy beacon glowed:

And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
"O come in life, or come in death!

O lost! my love, Elizabeth."

And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare

The waters laid thee at his doore

Ere yet the early dawn was clear.

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,

The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass,
That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!

To manye more than myne and me:
But each will mourn his own (she saith).
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more

By the reedy Lindis shore,

Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling,
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling,
"Leave your meadow-grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow;

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;

Come uppe, Whitefoot; come uppe, Lightfoot;
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
Hollow, hollow;

Come uppe, Lightfoot, rise and follow;
Lightfoot, Whitefoot,

From your clovers lift the head;

Come uppe, Jetty; follow, follow,

Jetty, to the milking-shed."

THE EVERLASTING MEMORIAL.
[From "Hymns of Hope and Faith."]

HORATIUS BONAR. ·

Up and away, like the dew of the morning,
Soaring from earth to its home in the sun;
So let me steal away, gently and lovingly,

Only remembered by what I have done.

My name, and my place, and my tomb all forgotten,
The brief race of time well and patiently run,
So let me pass away, peacefully, silently,
Only remembered by what I have done.

Gladly away from this toil would I hasten,

Up to the crown that for me has been won; Unthought of by man in rewards or in praises, Only remembered by what I have done.

Up and away, like the odors of sunset,

That sweeten the twilight as darkness comes on;

So be my life-a thing felt but not noticed,

And I but remembered by what I have done.

Yes, like the fragrance that wanders in freshness,

When the flowers that it came from are closed up and gone, So would I be to this world's weary dwellers,

Only remembered by what I have done.

Needs there the praise of the love-written record,
The name and the epitaph graved on the stone?
The things we have lived for-let them be our story,
We ourselves but remembered by what we have done.

I need not be missed if my life has been bearing

(As its summer and autumn moved silently on) The bloom, and the fruit, and the seed of its season; I shall still be remembered by what I have done.

I need not be missed if another succeed me

To reap down those fields which in spring I have sown ; He who plowed and who sowed is not missed by the reaper, He is only remembered by what he has done.

Not myself, but the truth that in life I have spoken—
Not myself, but the seed that in life I have sown,
Shall pass on to ages-all about me forgotten,

Save the truth I have spoken, the things I have done.

So let my living be, so be my dying;

So let my name lie, unblazoned, unknown;

Unpraised and unmissed, I shall still be remembered;
Yes-but remembered by what I have done.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

If men cared less for wealth and fame,
And less for battle-fields and glory;

If, writ in human hearts, a name

Seemed better than in song and story;

If men, instead of nursing pride,
Would learn to hate it and abhor it;

If more relied on love to guide,

The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,
And more in bonds and deeds fraternal;
If Love's work had more willing hands
To link this world to the supernal;

If men stored up Love's oil and wine,

And on bruised human hearts would pour it;
If "yours" and "mine" would once combine,
The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of life,
And fewer spoil it in rehearsal;
If Bigotry would sheathe its knife

Till good becomes more universal;
If custom, gray with ages grown,

Had fewer blind men to adore it;
If talents shone in Truth alone,

The world would be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things-
Affecting less in all their dealings-
If hearts had fewer rusted strings

To isolate their kindly feelings;

If men, when Wrong beats down the Right,
Would strike together and restore it;
If Right made Might in every fight,

The world would be the better for it.

THANK GOD, THERE'S STILL A VANGUARD.

MRS. H. E. G. AREY.

Thank God, there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the Right;

Though the throng flock to rearward,

Lifting (ashen-white)

Flags of truce to Sin and Error,
Clasping hands mute with terror,
Thank God, there's still a vanguard
Fighting for the Right.

Through the wilderness advancing,

Hewers of the way;

Forward far their spears are glancing,

Flashing back the day.

"Back!" the leaders cry who fear them;
"Back!" from all the army near them;
They, their steady tramp advancing,
Cleave their certain way.

Slay them-from each drop that falleth
Springs a hero armed;

Where the martyr's fire appalleth,

Lo! they pass unharmed;

Crushed beneath thy wheel, Oppression,
How their spirits hold possession--
How their dross-purged voice outcalleth,
By the death-throes warmed!

Thank God, there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the right;

Error's legions know their standard

Floating in the light.

When the league of Sin rejoices,

Quick outring the rallying voices,

Thank God, there's still a vanguard

Fighting for the Right.