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Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;

Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
From your clovers lift the head;
Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
Jetty, to the milking shed.”

Jean Ingelow.

Linden Lea.

MY ORCHET IN LINDEN LEA.

DORSET DIALECT.

’ITHIN
THIN the woodlands, flow'ry gledaed,

By the woak tree's mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,

Now do quiver under voot;
An' birds do whissle auver head,
An' water 's bubblen in its bed,
An' there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leately wer a-springen

Now do feade 'ithin the copse,
An' painted birds do hush ther zingen

Up upon the timber's tops,
An' brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, auver head,
Wi’ fruit vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo’k meake money vaster

In the air o' dark-room'd towns,
I don't dread a peevish measter;

Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

William Barnes.

Lindisfarne.

THE HOLY ISLAND,

AN

ND now the vessel skirts the strand

Of mountainous Northumberland;
Towns, towers, and halls successive rise,
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes.
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay,
And Tynemouth's priory and bay;
They marked, amid her trees, the hall
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval;
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods
Rush to the sea through sounding woods;
They passed the tower of Widdrington,
Mother of many a valiant son;
At Coquet Isle their beads they tell
To the good saint who owned the cell ;
Then did the Alne attention claim,

LINDISFARNE.

99University :

MICHIGAN And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name; And next they crossed themselves to hear The whitening breakers sound so near, Where, boiling through the rocks, they roar On Dunstanborough's caverned shore; Thy tower, proud Bamborough, marked they there, King Ida's castle, huge and square, From its tall rock look grimly down, And on the swelling ocean frown; Then from the coast they bore away, And reached the Holy Island's bay. The tide did now its flood-mark gain, And girdled in the saint's domain : For, with the flow and ebb, its style Varies from continent to isle ; Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, The pilgrims to the shrine find way; Twice every day, the waves efface Of staves and sandalled feet the trace. As to the port the galley flew, Higher and higher rose to view The castle with its battled walls, The ancient monastery's halls, A solemn, huge, and dark red pile, Placed on the margin of the isle. In Saxon strength that abbey frowned, With massive arches broad and round, That rose alternate, row and row, On ponderous columns, short and low,

Built ere the art was known,

By pointed aisle and shafted stalk,
The arcades of an alleyed walk

To emulate in stone.
On the deep walls the heathen Dane
Had poured his impious rage in vain ;
And needful was such strength to these,
Exposed to the tempestuous seas,
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway,
Open to rovers fierce as they,
Which could twelve hundred years withstand
Winds, waves, and Northern pirates' hand.
Not but that portions of the pile,
Rebuilded in a later style,
Showed where the spoiler's hand had been;
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint,
And mouldered in his niche the saint,
And rounded, with consuming power,
The pointed angles of each tower;
Yet still entire the abbey stood,
Like veteran, worn,

but unsubdued.

Sir Walter Scott.

THE REAPERS OF LINDISFARNE.

IN

his abbey cell Saint Cuthbert

Sate burdened and care-dismayed : For the wild Northumbrian people,

For whom he had wrought and prayed, Still clung to their warlike pastime,

Their plunder and border raid;

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Still scouted all peaceful tillage,

And queried with scowling brow, “ Shall we who have won our victual

By the stout, strong hand till now, Forswearing the free, bold foray,

Crawl after the servile plough!”

“Through year and through year I have taught them

By the word of my mouth,” he said, And still, in their untamed rudeness,

They trust to the wilds for bread; But now will I teach henceforward

By the toil of my hands instead.

“In their sight I will set the lesson;

And, gazing across the tarn,
They shall see on its nether border

Garth, byre, and hurdled barn,
And the brave, fair field of barley

That shall whiten at Lindisfarne."

Therewith from his Melrose cloister

Saint Cuthbert went his way:
He felled the hurst, and the meadow

Bare him rich swaths of hay,
And forth and aback in the furrow

He wearied the longsome day.

And it came to pass when the autumn

The ground with its sere leaves strawed, And the purple was over the moorlands,

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