ROBERT SOUTHEY was born at Bristol, England, Aug. 12, 1774, and died March 21, 1813. He was, after 1813, the poet laureate. He was an indefatigable literary worker, and left many volumes of prose and verse. ONE day to Helbeck I had strolled And, resting in its rocky grove, Sat listening to the rills; The while, to their sweet undersong, And the soft west-wind awoke the wood Louder or fainter, as it rose "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; "What, art thou critical?" quoth he; "Eschew that heart's disease That seeketh for displeasure 117 Where the intent hath been to please. "By those four bells there hangs a tale, Which, being told, I guess, Will make thee hear their scanty peal With proper thankfulness. "Not by the Cliffords were they given, Not by the Tufton's line; Thou hearest in that peal the crune "On Stanemore's side, one summer eve, "Behind them, on the lowland's verge, "Slowly they came in long array, "The hills returned that lonely sound Upon the tranquil air; The only sound it was, which then "Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine, Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then; 'How loudly to the hills he crunes, That crune to him again? "Think'st thou, if yon whole herd at once Their voices should combine, Were they at Brough, that we might not Hear plainly from this upland spot That cruning of the kine?' “That were a crune, indeed,' replied "Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs “Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, From yon dumb steeple crune, And thou and I on this hillside Will listen to their tune.' "So, while the merry bells of Brough "As one who in his later years, Contented with enough, Gave freely what he well could spare To buy the bells of Brough. "Thus it hath proved: three hundred years Since these have passed away, And Brunskill's is a living name, Remembered to this day." "More pleasure," I returned. "shall I "He knew how wholesome it would be, "What feelings and what impulses "That when his brethren were convened To meet for social prayer, He too, admonished by the call, "Or when a glad thanksgiving sound, Was sent to speak a nation's joy, "For victory by sea or land, And happy peace at length, Peace by his country's valor won, And 'stablished by her strength. — "When such exultant peals were borne Upon the mountain air, The sound should stir his blood, and give Such thoughts were in the old man's mind, And had I store of wealth, methinks, ROBERT SOUTHEY. "CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO NIGHT." This favorite piece was written in April, 187, after the author had read the incident upon which it is founded in a story of the time of Cromwell. MISS ROSE HARTWICK, of Litchfield, Mich., the author, then in her seventeenth year, was born July 18, 1850. In 1871 she was married to Mr. Edmund C Thorpe. SLOWLY England's sun was setting o'er the hill-tops far away. Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day, And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white, Struggling to keep back the murmur,—“Curfew must not ring to-night." "Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp, and cold, "I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh; Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper, few must not ring to-night." "Cur |