The venerable St. Cudberth;
And the head of the chaste King
Oswald, the lion of the Angli;
And Aiden, the Bishop:

Aedbert and Aedfrid,

The noble associates.
There is in it also

Aethelwold, the Bishop;

And the celebrated writer Bede;
And the Abbot Boisil,

By whom the chaste Cudberth

Was in his youth gratis instructed;
Who also well received the instructions.

There rest with these saints,

In the inner part of the Minster,

Relicks innumerable,

Which perform many miracles,

As the chronicles tell us,

And which await with them

The judgment of the Lord.

Anglo-Saxon Poem.

THE AISLE OF TOMBS.

THE interior of Chester-le-Street Church, Durham, contains a singular collection of monuments, bearing effigies of the deceased anecstry of the Lumley family, from the time of Liulphus to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

THE quiet and the chillness

Of the aisle of tombs;

The shadow and the stillness

A rosy light illumes :

Like the memory of the past, On the carvéd arms delaying, On the marble pall

O'er the blood-red scutcheon playing With a crimson fall,

Into sudden sunshine cast

Are the ancient warriors,

The warriors of olden time.

So with kindled heart we love them,
Dwelling on their fame;

So doth memory fling above them
Its shadow of a name,

Noblest shadow flung on earth :

We remember many a story
Of the old chivalric day,
When the red-cross, like a glory,
Shone above the fray;

'T was a glorious age gave birth
To the ancient warriors,

The warriors of olden time.

Though the sword no more be trusted
As it was of old,

Though the shining spear be rusted
And the right hand cold,

They have left their fame behind;

Still a spirit from their slumbers

Rises true and brave,

Asks the minstrel for his numbers,
Music from their grave:

Noble, gentle, valiant, kind,

Were the ancient warriors,

The warriors of olden time.

All their meaner part hath perished,
In the earth at rest;

And the present hour hath cherished
What of them was best.

What a knight should be we keep.
For the present doth inherit
All the glories of the past;
We retain what was its spirit,
While its dust to dust is cast.
All good angels guard the sleep
Of the ancient warriors,

The warriors of olden time.

Anonymous.

Eden, the River.

THE RIVER EDEN, CUMBERLAND.

DEN! till now thy beauty had I viewed

EDEN!

By glimpses only, and confess with shame That verse of mine, whate'er its varying mood,

Repeats but once the sound of thy sweet name:

Yet fetched from Paradise that honor came,
Rightfully borne; for Nature gives thee flowers
That have no rival among British bowers,
And thy bold rocks are worthy of their fame.
Measuring thy course, fair Stream! at length I pay
To my life's neighbor dues of neighborhood;
But I have traced thee on thy winding way
With pleasure sometimes by this thought restrained,
For things far off we toil, while many a good
Not sought, because too near, is never gained.
William Wordsworth.

THE MONUMENT,

COMMONLY CALLED LONG MEG AND HER DAUGHTERS, NEAR

A

THE RIVER EDEN.

WEIGHT of awe, not easy to be borne,

Fell suddenly upon my spirit,- cast

From the dread bosom of the unknown past,
When first I saw that family forlorn.

Speak thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn
The power of years, pre-eminent, and placed

Apart, to overlook the circle vast,

Speak, giant-mother! tell it to the Morn

While she dispels the cumbrous shades of night;
Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud;
At whose behest uprose on British ground
That sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round

Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite,
The inviolable God, that tames the proud!

William Wordsworth.

OF

Edenhall.

THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.

Edenhall, the youthful Lord

Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; He rises at the banquet board,

And cries, mid the drunken revellers all, "Now bring me the Luck of Edenhall!”

The butler hears the words with pain,
The house's oldest seneschal,

Takes slow from its silken cloth again
The drinking-glass of crystal tall;
They call it the Luck of Edenhall.

Then said the Lord: "This glass to praise,
Fill with red wine from Portugal!"
The graybeard with trembling hand obeys;
A purple light shines over all,

It beams from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light:
"This glass of flashing crystal tall
Gave to my sires the fountain-sprite;
She wrote in it, If this glass doth fall,
Farewell then, O Luck of Edenhall!

""T was right a goblet the fate should be Of the joyous race of Edenhall!