See here, my doing: curves of mountain, (bridge,

Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built
When men knew how to build, upon a rock
With turrets licnen-gilded like a rock:
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold,
New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires,
Here lived the Hills- - a Tudor-chimnied
(bulk

Of mellow brickwork on a isle of bowers.

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull The curate; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to (swim,

Who read me rhymes elaborately good, call'd him Crichton, for he

His own (seem'd

All-perfect, finish'd to the finger nail.

And once I ask'd him of his early life, And his first passion; and he answer'd me: And well his words became him: was he not A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke.

My love for Nature is as old as I:
But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that,
And three rich sennights more, my love for
(her.

Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew,
Twin-sisters differently beautiful.

To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seem'd to move and (change

With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between; For daily hope fulfill'd, to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep,to wake,to breathe."

Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, ,,I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man,

And for the good and increase of the world.
"Parson," said I,,,you pitch the pipe too low
But I have sudden touches; and can run
My faith beyond my practice into his:
Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill,
I do not hear the bells upon my cap,
I scarce have other music: yet say on.
What should one give to light on such a
(dream?"

1 ask'd him half-sardonically.

"Give? Give all thou art, he answer'd, and a light Of laughter dimpled in his swarthy cheek: "I would have hid her needle in my heart, To save her little finger from a scratch No deeper than the skin: my ears could hear Her lightest breaths: her least remark was (worth

The experience of the wise. I went and came; Her voice fled always thro' the summer land I spoke her name alone. Thrice-happy days! The flower of each, those moments when (we met,

The crown of all, we met to part no more.

Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarr'd; Whether he spoke too largely; that there (seem'd

A touch of something false, some self-con(ceit,

Or over-smoothness: howsoe'er it was,
He scarcely hit my humour, and I said:

,,Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone
Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me,
As in the Latin song I learnt at school,
Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and
(left?

But you can talk: yours is a kindly vein: I have, I think,- Heaven knows-as much (within;

Have, or should have, but for a thought or (two,

That like a purple beech among the greens
Looks out of place: 'tis from no want in her:
It is my shyness, or my self-distrust,
Or something of a wayward modern mind
Dissecting passion. Time will set me right."
So spoke I knowing not the things that were.
Then said the fat-faced curate, Edward Bull:

God made the woman for the use of man, And for the good and increase of the world."

And I and Edwin laugh'd; and now we (paused

About the windings of the marge to hear
The soft wind blowing over meadowy holms
And alders, garden-isles; and now we left
The clerk behind us, I and he, and ran
By ripply shallows of the lisping lake,
Delighted with the freshness and the sound.

But, when the bracken rusted on their crags,
My suit had wither'd nipt to death by him
That was a God, and is a lawyer's clerk,
The rentroll Cupid of our rainy isles.
'Tis true, we met; one hour I had, no more:
She sent a note, the seal an Elle vous suit,
The close,,Your Letty, only yours;" and this
Thrice underscored. The friendly mist of
(morn

Clung to the lake. I boated over, ran
My craft aground, and heard with beating
(heart

The Sweet-Gale rustle round the shelving (keel;

And out I stept, and up I crept: she moved, Like Proserpine in Enna, gathering flowers: Then low and sweet I whistled thrice: and, (she,

She tun'd, we closed, we kiss'd, swore faith, (I breathed

In some new planet: a silent cousin stole
Upon us and departed: „Leave," she cried,
Ó leave me!",,Never, dearest, never: here
I brave the worst:" and while we stood like
(fools

Embracing, all at once a score of pugs
And poodles yell'd within,and out they came
Trustees and Aunts and Uncles.!,,What with
(him!

Go" (shrill'd the cotton-spinning chorus); ,,him!"

I choked. Again they shriek'd the burthen(Him!

Again with hands of wild rejection,,Go! -
Girl, get you in! She went - and in one month
They wedded her to sixty thousand pounds,
To lands in Kent and messuages in York,
And slight Sir Robert with his watery smile
And educated whisker. But for me,
They set an ancient creditor to work:

It seems I broke a close with force and arms:
There came a mystic token from the king
To greet the sheriff, needless courtesy !
I read, and fled by night, and flying turn'd:
Her taper glimmer'd in the lake below:

I turn'd once more, close-button'd to the (storm:

So left the place, left Edwin, nor have seen Him since, nor heard of her, nor cared to (hear.

Nor cared to hear? perhaps : yet long ago I have pardon'd little Letty; not indeed, It may be, for her own dear sake but this, She seems a part of those fresh days to me; For in the dust and drouth of London life She moves among my visions of the lake, While the prime swallow dips his wing, or (then

While the gold-lily blows, and overhead The light cloud smoulders on the summer (crag.

ST. SIMEON STYLITES.
ALTHO' I be the basest of mankind,
From scalp to sole one slough and crust of
(sin,

Unfit for earth, unfit for heaven, scarce meet
For troops of devils, mad with blasphemy
I will not cease to grasp the hope I hold
Of saintdom, and to clamour, mourn and sob,
Battering the gates of heaven with storms
(of prayer,

Have mercy, Lord, and take away my sin,

Let this avail,just, dreadful, mighty God, This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years, Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes (and cramps,

A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud,
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne
Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and
(sleet, and snow;

And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy (rest,

Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the (palm.

Otake the meaning, Lord: I do not breathe, Not whisper, any murmur of complaint. Pain heap'd ten-hundred-fold, to this, were (still

Less burthen, by ten-hundred-fold, to bear, Than were those lead-like tons of sin, that (crush'd

My spirit flat before thee.

O Lord, Lord, Thou knowest I bore this better at the first,

For I was strong and hale of body then; And tho' my teeth, which now are dropt (away,

Would chatter with the cold, and all my (beard

Was tagg'd with icy fringes in the moon, I drown'd the whoopings of the owl with (sound

Of pious hymns and psalms, and sometimes (saw

An angel stand and watch me, as I sang. Now am I feeble grown: my end draws nigh; I hope my end draws nigh: half deaf I am, So that 1 scarce can hear the people hum About the column's base, and almost blind, And scarce can recognise the fields I know; And both my thighs are rotted with the dew; Yet cease I not to clamour and to cry, While my stiff spine can hold my weary head, Till all my limbs drop piecemeal from the (stone,

Have mercy, mercy: take away my sin.

O Jesus, if thou wilt not save my soul, Who may be saved? who is it may be saved? Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? Show me the man hath suffer'd more than I. For did not all thy martyrs die one death? For either they were stoned, or crucified, Or burn'd in fire, or boil'd in oil, or sawn In twain beneath the ribs; but I die here To-day, and whole years long, a life of death. Bear witness, if I could have found a way (And heedfully I sifted all my thought) More slowly-painful to subdue this home Of sin, my flesh, which I despise and hate, I had not stinted practice, O my God.

For not alone this pilar-punishment,
Not this alone I bore: but while I lived
In the white convent down the valley there,
For many weeks about my loins I wore
The rope that haled the buckets from the
(well,

Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose;
And spake not of it to a single soul,
Until the ulcer, eating thro' mv skin,
Betray'd my secret penance, so that all
My brethren marvell'd greatly. More than
(this

I bore, whereof, O God, thou knowest all. Three winters, that my soul might grow (to thee,

I lived up there on yonder mountain side. My right leg chain'd into the crag, 1 lay Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones";

Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist (and twice

Black'd with thy branding thunder, and (sometimes

Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not Except the spare chance-gift of those that (came

To touch my body and be heal'd, and live:
And they say then that I work'd miracles,
Whereof my fame is loud amongst mankind,
Cured lameness, palsies, cancers. Thou, ef
(God,

Knowest alone whether this was or no.
Have mercy, mercy; cover all my sin.

Then that I might be more alone with thee
Three years I lived upon a pillar, high
Six cubits, and three years on one of twelve
And twice three years I crouch'd on one'
(that rose

Twenty by measure; last of all, I grew
Twice ten long weary weary years to this,
That numbers forty cubits from the soil.

I think that I have borne as much as this-
Or else I dream and for so long a time,
If I may measure time by yon slow light,
And this high dial, which my sorrow crowns-
So much - even so.

And yet I know not well, For that the evil ones come here, and say, Fall down,O Simeon: thou hast suffer'd long For ages and for ages!" then they prate Of penances I cannot have gone thro', Perplexing me with lies; and oft I fall, Maybe for months, in such blind lethargies, That Heaven,and Earth,and Time are choked. But yet.

Bethink thee, Lord, while thou and all the (saints

Enjoy themselves in heaven, and men on (earth

House in the shade of comfortable roofs, Sit with their wives by fires, eat wholesome (food,

And wear warm clothes, and even beasts (have stalls,

I, 'tween the spring and downfall of the (light,

Bow down one thousand and two hundred (times,

To Christ, the Virgin Mother, and the Saints: Or in the night, after a little sleep,

I wake: the chill stars sparkle; I am wet With drenching dews,or stiff with crackling (frost.

I wear an undress'd goatskin on my back:
A grazing iron collar grinds my neck;
And in my weak, lean arms I lift the cross,
And strive and wrestle with thee till I die:
D mercy, mercy! wash away my sin.

O Lord, thou knowest what a man I am;
A sinful man, conceived and born in sin:
Tis their own doing; this is none of mine;
Lay it not to me. Am I to blame for this,
That here come those that worship me? Ha
(ha!

They think that I am somewhat. What am I? The silly people take me for a saint,

And bring me offerings of fruit and flowers: And I, in truth(thou wilt bear witness here) Have all in all endured as much, and more than many just and holy men, whose names Are register'd and calendar'd for saints. Good people, you do ill to kneel to me. What is it I can have done to merit this? am a sinner viler than you all.

t may be I have wrought some miracles, and cured some halt and maim'd; but what (of that?

t may be, no one, even among the saints, fay match his pains with mine; but what (of that?

et do not rise; for you may look on me, nd in your looking you may kneel to God. peak! is there any of you halt or maim'd? think you know I have some power with (Heaven

rom my long penance: let him speak his (wish.

es,I can heal him.Power goes forth from me. hey say that they are heal'd. Ah,hark! they (shout

St. Simeon Stylites." Why, if so, od reaps a harvest in me. O my soul, od reaps a harvest in thee. If this be, Can I work miracles and not be saved? This is not told of any. They were saints. t cannot be but that I shall be saved; ea, crown'd a saint. They shout,,,Behold (a saint!"

nd lower voices saint me from above. ourage, St. Simeon! This dull chrysalis racks into shining wings, and hope ere (death

reads more and more and more, that God (hath now

ponged and made blank of crimeful record (all

y mortal archives.

O my sons, my sons,

I, Simeon of the pillar, by surname
Stylites, among men; I Simeon,
The watcher on the column till the end;
I, Simeon, whose brain the sunshine bakes;
I, whose bald brows in silent hours become
Unnaturally hoar with rime, do now
From my high nest of penance here proclaim
That Pontius and Iscariot by my side
Show'd like fair seraphs. On the coals I lay,
A vessel full of sin: all hell beneath
Made me boil over. Devils pluck'd my sleeve;
Abaddon and Asmodeus caught at me.
I smote them with the cross; they swarn'd
(again.

In bed like monstrous apes they crush'd my (chest :

They flapp'd my light out as I read: I saw Their faces grow between me and my book; With colt-like whinny and with hoggish (whine

They burst my prayer. Yet this way was left, And by this way I 'scaped them. Mortify Your flesh, like me, with scourges and with (thorns;

Smite,shrink not,spare not. If it may be, fast Whole Lents, and pray. I hardly, with slow (steps,

With slow, faint steps, and much exceeding (pain,

Have scrambled past those pits of fire, that (still

Sing in mine ears. But yield not me the (praise:

God only thro' his bounty hath thought fit, Among the powers and princes of this world, To make me an example to mankind,

Which few can reach to. Yet I do not say But that a time may come-yea, even now, Now, now, his footsteps smite the threshold (stairs

Of life I say, that time is at the doors When you may worship me without re(proach;

For I will leave my relics in your land,
And you may carve a shrine about my dust,
And burn a fragrant lamp before my bones,
When I am gather'd to the glorious saints.
While I spake then,a sting of shrewdest pain
Ran shrivelling thro' me, and a cloudlike
(change,

In passing, with a grosser film made thick
These heavy, horny eyes. The end! the end!
Surely the end! What's here? a shape,a shade,

A flash of light. Is that the angel there That holds a crown? Come, blessed brother, (come.

I know thy glittering face. I waited long: My brows are ready. What! deny it now? Nay, draw, draw, draw nigh. So I clutch it. (Christ!

"Tis gone: 'tis here again; the crown! the (crown!

So now 'tis fitted on and grows to me,
And from it melt the dews of Paradise,
Sweet! sweet! spikenard, and balm, and
(frankincense.

Ah! let me not be fool'd, sweet saints: I trust That I am whole, and clean, and meet for (Heaven.

Speak, if there be a priest, a man of God, Among you there, and let him presently Approach, and lean a ladder on the shaft, And climbing up into my airy home, Deliver me the blessed sacrament; For by the warning of the Holy Ghost, I prophesy that I shall die to-night, A quarter before twelve.

But thou, O Lord, Aid all this foolish people; let them take Example, pattern: lead them to thy light.

THE TALKING OAK.

ONCE more the gate behind me falls;
Once more before my face
I see the moulder'd Abbey-walls,
That stand within the chace.
Beyond the lodge the city lies,
Beneath its drift of smoke;
And ah! with what delighted eyes
I turn to yonder oak.

For when my passion first began,
Ere that, which in me burn'd

The love, that makes me thrice a man,
Could hope itself return'd;

To yonder oak within the field
I spoke without restraint,
And with a larger faith appeal'd
Than Papist unto Saint.
For oft I talk'd with him apart,
And told him of my choice,
Until he plagiarised a heart,

And answer'd with a voice.
Tho' what he whisper'd under Heaven
None else could understand;
I found him garrulously given,

A babbler in the land.
But since I heard him make reply
Is many a weary hour;
"Twere well to question him, and try
If yet he keeps the power.
Hail, hidden to the knees in fern,
Broad Oak of Sumner-chace,
Whose topmost branches can discern
The roofs of Sumner-place!

Say thou, whereon I carved her name,
If ever maid or spouse,

As fair as my Olivia, came

To rest beneath thy boughs.
O Walter, I have shelter'd here
Whatever maiden grace

The good old Summers, year by year
Made ripe in Sumner-chace:

,,Old Summers, when the monk was fat,
And, issuing shorn and sleek,
Would twist his girdle tight, and pat
The girls upon the cheek,
"Ere yet, in scorn of Peter's-pence,
And number'd head, and shrift,
Bluff Harry broke into the spence

And turn'd the cowls adrift:
"And I have seen some score of those
Fresh faces, that would thrive
When his man-minded offset rose

To chase the deer at five;

,,And all that from the town would stroll,
Till that wild wind made work
In which the gloomy brewer's soul
Went by me, like a stork:

"The slight she-slips of loyal blood,
And others, passing praise,
Strait-laced, but all-too-full in bud
For puritanic stays:

,,And I have shadow'd many a group
Of beauties, that were born
In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn;
,,And, leg and arm with love-knots gay,
About me leap'd and laugh'd
The modest Cupid of the day,

And shrill'd his tinsel shaft.

"I swear (and else may insects prick
Each leaf into a gall)

This girl, for whom your heart is sick,
Is three times worth them all;
For those and theirs, by Nature's law,