They meet, they crash,-God keep the men! God give a moment's light! There is nothing but the tumult, And the tempest and the night. The men on shore were anxious, — They took the grandame's blanket, They took the baby's pillow, Who could not say them no; And they heaped a great fire on the pier, If they were heaping a bonfire, And, fed with precious food, the flame Till a cry rang through the people, But, when the first prow strikes the pier, Then all along the breadth of flame With, 'Child, here comes your father!" Or, "Wife, is this your man?" And faint feet touch the welcome shore, And stay a little while; And kisses drop from frozen lips, So, one by one, they struggled in, Who were too cold with sorrow And this is what the men must do, Like light upon her sails. M. B. S. Brockley Coomb. LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY, 1795. ITH many a pause and oft-reverted eye WITH I climb the Coomb's ascent; sweet songsters near Warble in shade their wildwood melody; Far off the unvarying cuckoo soothes my ear. Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock That on green plots o'er precipices browse; From the deep fissures of the naked rock The yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark-green boughs (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, and now have gained the topmost site. I rest; Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets My gaze! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: Brothers' Water. WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHERS' THE WATER. cock is crowing, The small birds twitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping-anon—anon There's life in the fountains; Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! William Wordsworth. Brough. BROUGH BELLS. CONCERNING these bells at Brough, there is a tradition that they were given by one Brunskill, who lived upon Stanemore, in the remotest part of the parish, and had a great many cattle. One time it happened that his bull fell a-bellowing, which in the dialect of the country is called cruning, this being the genuine Saxon word to denote that vociferation. Thereupon he said to one of his neighbors, "Hearest thou how loud this bull crunes? If these cattle should all crune together, might they not be heard from Brough hither?" He answered, "Yea."-"Well then," says Brunskill, "I'll make them all crune together." And he sold them all, and with the price thereof he bought the said bells. “ON N Stanemore's side, one summer eve, His herds in yonder Borrodale Come winding up the lea. "Behind them, on the lowland's verge, 'Slowly they came in long array, At times a low from them was heard, |