The sluggish saurian crawled to die,
Gasping under titanic ferns;

Ribs of rock that seaward jut,

Granite shoulders and boulders and snags,

Round which, though the winds in heaven be shut,
The nightmared ocean murmurs and yearns,
Welters, and swashes, and tosses, and turns,
And the dreary black sea-weed lolls and wags;

Only rock from shore to shore,

Only a moan through the bleak clefts blown,
With sobs in the rifts where the coarse kelp shifts,
Falling and lifting, tossing and drifting,

And under all a deep, dull roar,

Dying and swelling, forevermore,

Rock and moan and roar alone,

And the dread of some nameless thing unknown,
These make Appledore.

These make Appledore by night:

Then there are monsters left and right;

Every rock is a different monster;

All you have read of, fancied, dreamed,

When you waked at night because you screamed,

There they lie for half a mile,

Jumbled together in a pile,

And (though you know they never once stir),

If you look long, they seem to be moving

Just as plainly as can be,

Crushing and crowding, wading and shoving

Out into the awful sea,

Where you hear them snort and spout

With pauses between, as though they were listening, Then tumult anon when the surf breaks glistening

In the blackness where they wander about.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

WHEN THE COWS COME HOME *

With klingle, klangle, klingle,
Way down the dusty dingle,

The cows are coming home;

Now sweet and clear, and faint and low,
The airy tinklings come and go,

Like chimings from some far-off tower,
Or patterings of an April shower
That makes the daisies grow—

Ko-kling, ko-klang, koklinglelingle,
Way down the darkening dingle
The cows come slowly home.

With jingle, jangle, jingle,
Soft sounds that sweetly mingle,
The cows are coming home;

Malime, and Pearl, and Florimel,

DeKamp, Redrose, and Gretchen Schell,

Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue

Across the fields I hear lo0-00,

And clang her silver bell,

Go-ling, go-lang, golinglelingle,
With faint far sounds that mingle,
The cows come slowly home;
And mother-songs of long-gone years,
And baby joys, and childish fears,
And youthful hopes, and youthful fears,
When the cows come home.

With ringle, rangle, ringle,

By twos and threes and single,
The cows are coming home.

*By permission of the publishers, Messrs. A. C. McClurg & Co.

Through the violet air we see the town,
And the summer sun a-slipping down;
The maple in the hazel glade
Throws down the path a longer shade,
And the hills are growing brown.
To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle,
By threes and fours and single,
The cows come slowly home.

The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,
The same sweet June-day rest and calm,
The same sweet scent of bud and balm,
When the cows come home.

With a tinkle, tankle, tinkle,
Through fern and periwinkle,
The cows are coming home;
A-loitering in the checkered stream,
Where the sun-rays glance and gleam,
Starine, Peach boom, and Phoebe Phyllis
Stand knee deep in the creamy lilies,
In a drowsy dream,

To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle,

O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle
The cows come slowly home;

And up through memory's deep ravine

Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, And the crescent of the silver queen,

When the cows come home.

With a klingle, klangle, klingle,

With a loo-oo, and moo-oo, and jingle,

The cows are coming home;

And over there on Merlin hill,

Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill;

The dew-drops lie on the tangled vines,
And over the poplars Venus shines;
And over the silent mill,

Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
With a ting-a-ling and jingle,
The cows come slowly home.

Let down the bars; let in the train

Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain;
For dear old times come back again

When the cows come home.

MRS. AGNES E. MITCHELL.

DISCORD

Thus saying, from her side the fatal key,
Sad instrument of all our woe, she took;
And, towards the gate rolling her bestial train,
Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-drew,
Which, but herself, not all the Stygian Powers
Could once have moved; then in the key-hole turns
The intricate wards, and every bolt and bar

Of

massy iron or solid rock with ease Unfastens. On a sudden open fly,

With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus. She opened; but to shut
Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood,
That with extended wings a bannered host,
Under spread ensigns marching, might pass through
With horse and chariots ranked in loose array;
So wide they stood, and like a furnace-mouth
Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame.

JOHN MILTON.

CONCORD

The multitude of Angels, with a shout

Loud as from numbers without number, sweet
As from blest voices, uttering joy-Heaven rung
With jubilee, and loud hosannas filled

The eternal regions. Lowly reverent

Toward either throne they bow, and to the ground
With solemn adoration down they cast

Their crowns, inwove with amarant and gold,—
Immortal amarant, a flower which once

In Paradise, fast by the Tree of Life,

Began to bloom, but, soon for Man's offence,

To Heaven removed where first it grew, there grows

And flowers aloft, shading the Fount of Life,

And where the River of Bliss through midst of Heaven
Rolls o'er Elysian flowers her amber stream!

With these, that never fade, the Spirits elect

Bind their resplendent locks, inwreathed with beams.
Now in loose garlands thick thrown off, the bright
Pavement, that like a sea of jasper shone,
Impurpled with celestial roses smiled.

Then, crowned again, their golden harps they took-
Harps ever tuned, that glittering by their side
Like quivers hung; and with preamble sweet
Of charming symphony they introduce
Their sacred song, and waken raptures high:
No voice exempt, no voice but well could join
Melodious part; such concord is in Heaven.

JOHN MILTON.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE

"How does the Water come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me thus once on a time;