THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

Wordsworth makes a poem of the grief of a shepherd -a kind of sermon that would hardly have been perceived or thought of by any other heart than Wordsworth's -however kind.

IN distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads alone;
But such a one on English ground,

And in the broad highway I met;
Along the broad highway he came,

His cheeks with tears were wet; Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad, And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide :
And with his coat did then essay
To wipe those briny tears away.

I followed him and said, "My friend,

What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb,

He makes my tears to flow.

To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock.

"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,

Though little given to care and thought,
Yet so it was, an ewe I bought;

S.P.

G

And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;

Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.

"Year after year my stock it grew:
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine a flock as ever grazed!
Upon the Quantock Hills they fed;

They throve, and we at home did thrive:

This lusty lamb of all my store

Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we die,

And perish all of poverty.

"Six children, sir, had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!

My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the parish asked relief;
They said I was a wealthy man,

My sheep upon the uplands fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.

Do this-how can we give to you,
They cried, what to the poor is due ?

"I sold a sheep as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food:
For me it never did me good.

A woeful time it was for me,

To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away-
For me it was a woeful day!

"Another still! and still another!

A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopped-

Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped Till thirty were not left alive;

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say that many a time

I wished they all were gone ;

Reckless of what might come at last,
Were but the bitter struggle past.

"To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort could I find,

No ease within doors or without;
And crazily and wearily

I went my work about:

And oft was moved to flee from home
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

"Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.

Alas! it was an evil time;

God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;

And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday

I had but only one :

And here it lies upon my arm

Alas, and I have none;

To-day I fetched it from the rock

It is the last of all my flock!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

The English navy in time of war evoked the great spirit of the metre and the rhymes.

YE Mariners of England

That guard our native seas,

Whose flag has braved a thousand years

The battle and the breeze,

Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

UNIV. OF CALIFORNIA

ΙΟΙ

The School of Poetry

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow,-
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore

When the stormy winds do blow,—
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow,-
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.