"Come to thy God in time!
Thus saith their pealing chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
"Come to thy God at last."

But why are Bottreau's echoes still?
Her tower stands proudly on the hill;
Yet the strange chough that home hath found:
The lamb lies sleeping on the ground.

The ship rode down with courses free,
The daughter of a distant sea:

Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored,
The merry Bottreau bells on board.
"Come to thy God in time!
Rung out Tintadgel chime;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
"Come to thy God at last!"

The pilot heard his native bells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells;

"Thank God," with reverent brow he cried,
"We make the shore with evening's tide."
"Come to thy God in time!"
It was his marriage chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell must ring at last.

Thank God, thou whining knave, on land, But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand," The captain's voice above the gale: "Thank the good ship and ready sail." "Come to thy God in time! Sad grew the boding chime: "Come to thy God at last! Boomed heavy on the blast.

Uprose that sea! as if it heard
The mighty Master's signal-word:
What thrills the captain's whitening lip?
The death-groans of his sinking ship.
"Come to thy God in time!"
Swung deep the funeral chime:
Grace, mercy, kindness past,
"Come to thy God at last!"

When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell,

While those around would hear and weep

That fearful judgment of the deep.

"Come to thy God in time!"
He read his native chime:
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell rung out at last.

Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves
Is wakening in his weedy caves :
Those bells, that sullen surges hide,

Peal their deep notes beneath the tide:

"Come to thy God in time!"
Thus saith the ocean chime:
Storm, billow, whirlwind past,
"Come to thy God at last!"

Robert Stephen Hawker.

Bramble-Rise.

BRAMBLE-RISE.

HAT wonders greet my waking eyes

WHAT

At last! Can this be Bramble-Rise,

Once smallest of its shire?

How changed, and changing from my dream;
The dumpy church used not to seem
So dumpy in the spire.

This village is no longer mine;

And though the inn has changed its sign,

The beer may not be stronger:

The river, dwindled by degrees,
Is now a brook, - the cottages
Are cottages no longer.

The thatch is slate, the plaster bricks,
The trees have cut their ancient sticks,
Or else the sticks are stunted:
I'm sure these thistles once grew figs,

The geese were swans, and once the pigs
More musically grunted.

Where early reapers whistled shrill,
A whistle may be noted still,

The locomotive's ravings.

New custom newer want begets, -
I loved a bank for violets, -

I loathe a bank for savings.

That voice I have not heard for long!
So Patty still can sing the song
A merry playmate taught her;
I know the strain, but much suspect
'Tis not the child I recollect,

But Patty, Patty's daughter;

And has she too outlived the spells
Of breezy hills and silent dells

Where childhood loved to ramble ?
Then life was thornless to our ken,
And, Bramble-Rise, thy hills were then
A rise without a bramble.

*

Frederick Locker.

IN

Bray.

THE VICAR OF BRAY.

N good King Charles's golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,

A zealous high-churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.

To teach my flock I never missed:
Kings were by God appointed,
And lost are those who dare resist

Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is the law that I'll maintain
Until my dying day, sir,

That whatsoever king shall reign,

Still I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James possessed the crown,
And popery grew in fashion,

The penal laws I hooted down,

And read the declaration;

The Church of Rome I found would fit

Full well my constitution;

And I had been a Jesuit

But for the revolution.

And this is the law that I'll maintain, etc.

When William was our king declared,

To ease the nation's grievance ;