There are brave hearts yet in England, hearts as tender and as true,

As when erst my loyal Cumbrians for the right their broadswords drew;

Though they lurk in upper chambers, though they boast no Norman blood,

Still they hold their scorn of traitors, love of kings and fear of God.

Oh, my lords that wait on fortune, watching how the tide will turn,

Scorn them not, no peer has taught them all God's lessons to unlearn ;

When they pledged them to Charles Edward, they had counted honour's cost,

And they cleave to him that loves them, be the battle won or lost.

All's not smooth to crowned usurpers, will your Guelphs in trouble see

Peers of this day's vows as mindful as my friends of theirs to me.

Then if these should fail you, prince, these in whom you

put your trust,

Think when darkest clouds are gathering, God remembers the unjust;

Think He reckons then with England for the scaffold of Whitehall,

For the Stuart's wrongs and sorrows many a Guelphic tear must fall.

So God show the right between us-here our paths for

ever part,

Know ye have not crushed your victim while he sways one English heart.

'Tis a realm ye well might envy, one our House has held

of yore,

Fare you well and seek to win it,-Stuarts cross your

path no more.

MRS. CRAIK (née DINAH MARIA MULOCK).

1826-1887

FOUR YEARS

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down,
Said I mournful-Though my life be in its prime,
Bare lie my meadows all shorn before their time,
O'er my sere woodlands the leaves are turning brown ;
It is the hot Midsummer, when the hay is down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down,
Stood she by the brooklet, young and very fair,
With the first white bindweed twisted in her hair-
Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, all in her simple
gown-

That eve in high Midsummer, when the hay was down.

At the Midsummer, when the hay was down,

Crept she a willing bride close into my breast;

Low-piled the thunder-clouds had sunk into the west, Red-eyed the sun out-glared like knight from leaguered town;

It was the high Midsummer, and the sun was down.

It is Midsummer-all the hay is down,

Close to her forehead press I dying eyes,

Praying God shield her till we meet in Paradise,
Bless her in love's name who was my joy and crown,

And I go at Midsummer, when the hay is down.

MORTIMER COLLINS. 1827-1876

SHIRLEY CHASE

Cavalier Music! Shirley Chase,

Hidden deep amid oak-trees royal, Is the noble home of a knightly race,

Old as the oak-trees,-proud and loyal. Snow has fallen on the White King's bier,Cromwell lords it, late and early,

But as yet his troopers come not here;

At home in his hall sits Sir Everard Shirley.

Moonlight pours through the painted oriels,
Firelight flickers on pictured walls,

Full of solemn and sad memorials

Is the room where that mingled glimmer falls.
There is the banner of Arthur Shirley,
Who died for Charles on a misty wold;

There is his portrait-an infant curly,

Whose corse in an unknown grave lies cold.

Hot and sudden swept Rupert's horse

Down on the villainous Roundhead churls, But they left young Arthur a mangled corse With the red mire clotting his chestnut curls: Only son of an ancient race,

As any that dwells in England's realm;

Ah, a shadow sleeps on Sir Everard's face

When he thinks of his soldier's snow-plumed helm.

Madrigal music fills the room

With spring-like beauty and delicate grace;

Vanishes half their weary gloom,

As Harry St. Osyth's manly bass

And Maud's soprano and Amy in alt

Mingle like streams on a verdurous shore;

But memory sets them once at fault,

As they think of the tenor that's heard no more.

After, a rare old English glee,

Humorous, eloquent, daring, buoyant, Rings through the chamber, strong and free, And shakes the mullioned panes flamboyant ; Merry music of olden time,

Gaily defying the Cromwell manacle,

Stoutly rebelling in hearty rhyme

'Gainst cant and heresy puritanical.

Then Amy down to the organ sits,

And a pleasant prelude sounds sonorous As over the keys her white hand flits,

And a Latin canon claims their chorus. Not in the great cathedrals now

Does saintly song as of yore find place; But it soothes awhile the furrowed brow

Of the sad old Master of Shirley Chase.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 1828-1882

THE BLESSED DAMOZEL

The blessed damozel leaned out
From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
Of waters stilled at even;

She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift
For service meetly worn;
Her hair, that lay along her back,
Was yellow like ripe corn.

Her seemed she scarce had been a day
One of God's choristers;

The wonder was not yet quite gone

From that still look of hers;

Albeit, to them she left, her day
Had counted as ten years.

(To one it is ten years of years,
... Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she lean'd o'er me-her hair
Fell all about my face. . . .

:

Nothing the autumn fall of leaves
The whole year sets apace.)