INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE, AT

SOUTH FERRIBY.

"And may at last my weary age
Find out some peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit, and rightly spell
Of ev'ry star that heaven doth shew,
And
every herb that sips the dew."
IL PENSEROSO.

REST wanderer, within this "mossy cell,"

Though from the roof hangs not the hermit's bell To call the weary pilgrim,-he is fled :—

No rushes green, are scatter'd for thy bed,

No vesper hymn lulls thee to sweet repose,

No beads are telling at the daylight's close;

No lonely anchorite is ling'ring here,

Wasting life's precious hours in penance drear,—
But peace, and holy contemplation dwell
With innocence, in this her russet cell.

Far from the "madding crowd's" ignoble strife,
Far from the thousand ills that wait on life.

INSCRIPTION FOR A HERMITAGE.

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Listen!-Old Humbria's waters roll away,

While through dark groves the whispering breezes

play!

Then hither turn from summer's noon-tide heat,

This mossy floor invites the wanderer's feet;
And hither speed, when that sweet hour is nigh
Of eve, with Hesper's dewy light on high;
An hour for lonely contemplation made,
When moonlight shadows linger in the glade;
The boatman's song, then softly dies away,
With every sound that tells of parting day;
Till all is still.-Then raise thy musings high,
To better worlds, beyond the starry sky,
Far o'er dim earth let thy aspirings be,
And lose thyself in that eternity!

L

MAB'S CROSS.

A LANCASHIRE LEGEND.

Come forth, come forth, ye vassals all,
Sir William's banner streams afar;
And rouse you up at honour's call,
To seek the Holy war.

And on they troop, both squire and knight,

And serf, and vassal low,

To dare the Saracen to fight,

The infidel to bow.

Fair Lady Mabel, weep no more!
In safety soon returning,
From distant Syria's palmy shore,

The crescent proudly spurning.

MAB'S CROSS.

Again shall Bradshaw's banner float,
Wide waving from the turret high,
And sounds of joy, shall own the note,
And to his bulge make reply.

Far o'er the bounding waters borne,
They go from Haigh's sequester'd bowers,

Where Lady Mabel long did mourn,

While slowly crept the joyless hours.

For there no more at dawn of day,

Did the hoarse stag-hound's bark foretel,

That hast'ning to the woods away,

Sir William sought the forest dell.

Nor when still evening's gathering veil
Was on the dusky boughs reposing,
Where the sweet night-bird told her tale,
As the long summer day was closing,

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His well-known step no longer falls,

His stately form no more is seen;
But round his own "time honour'd" walls,
The very pathway now is green.

And years roll'd by.-From Holy Land

He comes not,-came not ;-Wherefore, tell?

The bravest of that gallant band,

They told her that Sir William fell.

Oh, bitterly did Mabel sigh!

And long the silent tear did flow, From her lov'd home condemn'd to fly, Or smile upon Sir William's foe,

Sir Ormond wed,-and 'scape the storm,
That threaten'd on her house to fall;

Ah, how unlike the noble form,

That once was ruler in that Hall!