THE RIVER'S SONG.

LEAR and cool, clear and cool,

By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle, and foaming weir;

Under the crag where the ouzel sings,

And the ivied wall where the church bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,

By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,

Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare sport with the sin defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free,

The flood-gates are open, away to the sea,
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.
Undefiled, for the undefiled,

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

[From The Water Babies, chap. i. :—"The river chimed and tinkled far below, and this was the song which it sang."]

[From The Water Babies, chap. ii. :-"The dame grew so old that she could not stir abroad, and always she sung an old old song, as she sat spinning what she called her wedding dress. The children could not understand it, but they liked it none the less for that; for it was very sweet, and very sad; and that was enough for them."]

FRANCES' SONG.

HADOWS we are.

Our triumph and our trouble

Pass like a dream, and we are passing too.

Life is a fancy, glory is a bubble;

Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue.

Sunlight has shadow, cool for those that wander;
Moonlight has shadow, safe for those that woo;
Ah, on what vanities our life we squander!
Shadows we are, and shadows we pursue.

Yet, while ambition in despair is dying,

Yet, while strong noon slopes slowly to the night,
Love's diamond lamp will set the phantoms flying,
Love scorns all shadows, being perfect light.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

[From Frances, vol. iii. chap. vi. : "Ah me, how true are the words of Burke . . . "What shadows we are, and what shadows we pursue!"'"]

Ancient Death, a masquer quaint,
Waits till thy voice grow weary and faint,
And thy foot no longer dances free:
Then, where the shadows of yew trees fall,
And the river flows husht by the churchyard wall,
To his clay-cold breast he foldeth thee.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

[From The Vivian Romance, vol. ii. chap. xii. :-"The fair Emily went to the piano, and burst into song in [this] fashion."]

[From Sweet and Twenty, vol. iii. chap. xix. :-"Charlie could sing a Cornish song in the dialect of his county, amid shouts of laughter, and he could sing a pretty pathetic ballad, and melt the hearts of the ladies of his audience."]