"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, Not 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,.

Neighbor,' 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?'

666

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.'

666

Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, 'From yon dumb steeple crune,

And thou, and I, on this hillside

Will listen to their tune.'

"So, while the merry bells of Brough
For many an age ring on,
John Brunskill will remembered 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

Remembered 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;

"That when his brethren were convened

To meet for social prayer,

He too, admonished by the call,

In spirit might be there.

"Or when a glad thanksgiving sound,

Upon the winds of heaven, Was sent to speak a nation's joy,

For some great blessing given,

"For victory by sea or land,

And happy peace at length,-Peace by his country's valor won, And 'stablished by her strength.

"When such exultant peals were borne Upon the mountain air,

The sound should stir his blood, and give An English impulse there."

Such thoughts were in the old man's mind,
When he that eve looked down

From Stanemore's side, on Borrodaile,
And on the distant town.

And had I store of wealth, methinks,
Another herd of kine,

John Brunskill, I would freely give,
That they may crune with thine.

CCXL

TO THE WIND IN AN ÆOLIAN HARP

E

THEREAL race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove,

Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid!
With what soft woe they thrill the listener's heart!
Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,
Who died in youth, these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,
On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;
Or he the sacred Bard who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung, When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; And to such sadly solemn tones are strung

Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir

Thro' heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise ;
Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire
To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wand'ring spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined, For till you cease my muse forgets to sing.

J. Thomson