"And if you wish to see them now, "Have done!" said I, "thou mariner old, I looked up to the lady moon, She was like a glow-worm's spark; And never a star shone down to us Through the sky so high and dark. We had no mast, we had no ropes, And the stores I brought from the charmèd isle In the seven days' sail were spent. But the Nautilus was a patient thing, On the up-hill sea; and he never slept, And for thrice seven nights we sailed and sailed; At length I saw the bay Where I built my ship, and my mother's house 'Mid the green hills where it lay. "Farewell!" said I to the Nautilus, And leaped upon the shore; “Thou art a skilful mariner, But I'll sail with thee no more!" M. HOWITT. The Doom-Well of St Madron "PLUNGE thy right hand in St Madron's spring, If true to its troth be the palm you bring: But if a false sigil thy fingers bear, Lay them the rather on the burning share.” Loud laughed King Arthur when-as he heard "Now horse and hattock, both but and ben," Was the cry at Lauds, with Dundagel men; And forth they pricked upon Routorr side, As goodly a raid as a king could ride. Proud Gwennivar rode like a queen of the land, With page and with squire at her bridle hand And the twice six knights of the stony ring, They girded and guarded their Cornish king. Then they halted their steeds at St Madron's cell : And they stood by the monk of the cloistered well; "Now off with your gauntlets," King Arthur he cried, "And glory or shame for our Tamar side." "Twere sooth to sing how Sir Gauvain smiled, When he grasped the waters so soft and mild; How Sir Lancelot dashed the glistening spray O'er the rugged beard of the rough- Sir Kay. Sir Bevis he touched and he found no fear : Say, Cornish dames, for ye guess the scene. "Now rede me my riddle, Sir Mordred, I pray, He plunged his right arm in the judgment well, It bubbled and boiled like a cauldron of hell : Now let Uter Pendragon do what he can, Ye harowe their troth in St Madron's well. R. S. HAWKER. A KNIGHT of gallant deeds And a young page at his side, As each were a palmer and told for beads "O young page," said the knight, "A noble page art thou! Thou fearest not to steep in blood The curls upon thy brow And once in the tent, and twice in the fight, "O brave knight," said the page, We talked in tent, we talked in field, But here, below this greenwood bough, "Our troop is far behind, The woodland calm is new; Our steeds, with slow grass-muffled hoofs, "The woodland calm is pure— I cannot choose but have A thought from these, o' the beechen trees, Which in our England wave, And of the little finches fine Which sang there while in Palestine The warrior-hilt we drave. Methinks, a moment gone, I heard my mother pray ! I heard, sir knight, the prayer for me And I know the heavens are leaning down |