White she is, as lily of June,
And beauteous as the silver moon
When out of sight the clouds are driven,
And she is left alone in Heaven;
Or like a ship some gentle day,
In sunshine sailing far away,
A glittering ship, that hath the plain
Of ocean for her own domain.
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave
In quietness she lays her down;
Gentle as a weary wave
Sinks, when the summer breeze has died,
Against an anchor'd vessel's side;
Even so, without distress, doth she
Lie down in peace, and lovingly.
The day is placid in its going,
To a lingering motion bound,
Like the crystal stream now flowing
With its softest summer sound:
So the balmy minutes pass,
While this radiant creature lies
Couched upon the dewy grass,
Pensively with downcast eyes.
-But now again the people raise,
With awful cheer a voice of praise;
It is the last, the parting song;
And from the temple forth they throng,
And quickly spread themselves abroad,
While each pursues his several road.
But some-a variegated band
Of middle aged, and old, and young,
And little children by the hand
Upon their leading mothers hung,-
With mute obeisance gladly paid,
Turn toward the spot, where, full in view,
The white doe, to her service true,
Her sabbath couch hath made.
66 Look, there she is, my child! draw near;
She fears not, wherefore should we fear?
She means no harm;" but still the boy,
To whom the words were softly said,
Hung back, and smiled, and blush'd for joy.
A shamfaced blush of glowing red!
Again the mother whisper'd low,
66 Now, you have seen the famous doe;
From Rylstone she hath found her way
Over the hills this sabbath day;
Her work, whate'er it be, is done,
And she will depart when we are gone;
Thus doth she keep, from year to year,
Her sabbath morning, foul or fair."
BROUGH BELLS
One day to Helbeck I had stroll'd
Among the Crossfell hills,
And resting in its rocky grove,
Sat listening to the rills
The while, to their sweet undersong,
The birds sang blithe around,
And the soft west wind awoke the wood
To an intermitting sound.
Louder or fainter, as it rose
Or died away, was borne The harmony of merry bells
From Brough that pleasant morn.
"Why are the merry bells of Brough,
My friend, so few ?" said I,
"They disappoint th' expectant ear
Which they should gratify.
“One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four;
'Tis still one, two, three, four;
Mellow and silvery are the tones,
But I wish the bells were more !"
"What, art thou critical?" quoth he; "Eschew that heart's disease
That seeketh for displeasure
Where the intent hath been to please.
"By those four bells there hangs a tale,
Which, being told, I guess,
Will make thee hear their scanty peal
With proper thankfulness.
"Not by the Cliffords were they given,
Nor by the Tufton's line;
Thou hearest in that peal the crune
Of old John Brunskill's kine.
"On Stanemore's side, one summer eve,
John Brunskill sate to see,
His herds in yonder Borrodaile
Come winding up the lea.
"Behind them, on the lowland's verge,
In the evening light serene;
Brough's silent tower, then newly built
By Blenkinsop, was seen.
"Slowly they came in long array,
With loitering pace at will;
At times a low from them was heard,
Far off, for all was still.
“The hills returned that lonely sound
Upon the tranquil air ;
The only sound it was, which then
Awoke the echoes there.
"Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine,
Neighbour,' quoth Brunskill then ;
'How loudly to the hills he crunes,
That crune to him again?
"Think'st thou, if yon whole herd at once
Their voices should combine,
Were they at Brough, that we might not
Hear plainly from this upland spot
That cruning of the kine?'
"That were a crune, indeed,' replied
His comrade, 'which, I ween,
Might at the Spital well be heard,
And in all dales between.
"Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs
The eastern wind upon its wings
The mighty voice could bear;
And Appleby would hear the sound,
Methinks, when skies are fair.
"Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried,
'From yon dumb steeple crune,
And thou, and I, on this hill side
Will listen to their tune.'
'So, while the merry bells of Brough
For many an age ring on,
John Brunskill will remember'd be,
When he is dead and gone ;
"As one who in his later years,
Contented with enough,
Gave freely what he well could spare
To buy the bells of Brough.
"Thus it hath proved: three hundred years
Since these have passed away,
And Brunskill's is a living name
Remember'd to this day."
"More pleasure," I returned, "shall I
From this time forth partake,
When I remember Helbeck woods,
For old John Brunskill's sake.
"He knew how wholesome it would be
Among these wild wide fells,
And upland vales, to catch at time
The sound of Christian bells;
"What feelings, and what impulses
That cadence might convey
To herdsman, or to shepherd boy,
Whiling in indolent employ
The solitary day;
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