"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough

The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried,

Who put the French to rout;
But what they fought each other for
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly :

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then

And newborn baby died:

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun :

But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won

And our good Prince Eugene."

Why 'twas a very wicked thing!' Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay.. nay.. my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory.

And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last ?" Quoth little Peterkin.

Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

With them I take delight in weal
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1221.-YOUTH AND AGE.

With cheerful step the traveller
Pursues his early way,
When first the dimly-dawning east
Reveals the rising day.

He bounds along his craggy road,
He hastens up the height,
And all he sees and all he hears
Administer delight.

And if the mist, retiring slow,

Roll round its wavy white,
He thinks the morning vapours hide,
Some beauty from his sight.

But when behind the western clouds
Departs the fading day,
How wearily the traveller

Pursues his evening way!

Sorely along the craggy road

His painful footsteps creep,
And slow, with many a feeble pause,
He labours up the steep.

And if the mists of night close round,
They fill his soul with fear;
He dreads some unseen precipice,
Some hidden danger near.

So cheerfully does youth begin
Life's pleasant morning stage;
Alas! the evening traveller feels
The fears of wary age!

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1220.-THE SCHOLAR.

My days among the Dead are past; Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast, The mighty minds of old:

My never failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day.

1222. THE COMPLAINTS OF THE POOR

And wherefore do the poor complain ?
The rich man ask'd of me; . . .

Come walk abroad with me, I said,
And I will answer thee.

'Twas evening, and the frozen streets Were cheerless to behold,

And we were wrapt and coated well,
And yet we were a-cold.

We met an old bare-headed man,
His locks were thin and white:
I ask'd him what he did abroad
In that cold winter's night:

The cold was keen, indeed, he said,
But at home no fire had he,
And therefore he had come abroad
To ask for charity.

We met a young bare-footed child,
And she begg'd loud and bold:
I ask'd her what she did abroad
When the wind it blew so cold:

She said her father was at home,
And he lay sick a-bed,

And therefore was it she was sent
Abroad to beg for bread.

We saw a woman sitting down
Upon a stone to rest,
She had a baby at her back

And another at her breast:

I ask'd her why she loiter'd there

When the night-wind was so chill: She turn'd her head and bade the child That scream'd behind, be still;

Then told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away,
And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.
We met a girl, her dress was loose,
And sunken was her eye,
Who with a wanton's hollow voice
Address'd the passers-by;

I ask'd her what there was in guilt
That could her heart allure
To shame, disease, and late remorse:
She answer'd she was poor.

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future; whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,

"And life must be hast'ning away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death;

Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied,

"Let the cause thy attention engage; In the days of my youth I remember'd my God,

And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1224. THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The Mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'

"Can'st hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore; Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
Cried they, "It is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide,

But even in his dying fear

One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.
Robert Southey.-Born 1774, Died 1843.

1225.-BISHOP HATTO.

The summer and autumn had been so wet, That in winter the corn was growing yet; 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around The grain lie rotting on the ground.

Every day the starving poor
Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door,
For he had a plentiful last year's store;
And all the neighbourhood could tell
His granaries were furnish'd well.

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day
To quiet the poor without delay;
He bade them to his great barn repair,
And they should have food for the winter
there.

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear,
The poor folk flock'd from far and near;
The great barn was full as it could hold
Of women and children, and young and old.
Then when he saw it could hold no more
Bishop Hatto he made fast the door;
And while for mercy on Christ they call,
He set fire to the barn and burnt them all.

No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight

As she welcom'd them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night

When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they

Who knew him would pity poor Mary and

I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear

The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,

Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear,

For this wind might awaken the dead!"

"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried, "That Mary would venture there now." "Then wager and lose!" with a sneer he replied,

"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,

And faint if she saw a white cow."

"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow ?"

His companion exclaimed with a smile; "I shall win-for I know she will venture there now

And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the elder that grows in the aisle."

With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,
And her way to the Abbey she bent;
The night was dark, and the wind was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the

The Traveller ask'd, "or is the old man dead ?"

"No; he has left his loving flock, and we So great a Christian never more shall see," The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his head.

"Ah, sir, we knew his worth!

If ever there did live a saint on earth! Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt For thirty days, all seasons, day and night. Good man, he knew it was not right For Dust and Ashes to fall out with Dirt!

And then he only hung it out in the rain, And put it on again.

There has been perilous work With him and the Devil there in yonder

cell;

For Satan used to maul him like a Turk.
There they would sometimes fight,
All through a winter's night,

From sunset until morn.

He with a cross, the Devil with his horn; The Devil spitting fire with might and main, Enough to make St. Michael half afraid: He splashing holy water till he made His red hide hiss again, And the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell. This was so common that his face became All black and yellow with the brimstone flame,

And then he smelt... O dear, how he did smell!

Then, sir, to see how he would mortify The flesh! If any one had dainty fare,