So cheerful, loving, happy,

At once my joy and pride;
So full of life, dear little wife !
Beyond all else beside!

Composed at Brawby, May 24, 1888.

THUNDER.

THE heavens around are murky still,
A steel blue cloud rests on the hill;
The air is sultry, dense, and dark,
When suddenly a livid spark

Lights up the gloom with fiery ray :
The gleaming lightning's fierce display;
Then crashing, rattling, rolling o'er,
Peal follows peal with rumbling roar ;
As hollow, loud, and booming hoarse,
The dread artillery runs its course,
In solemn grandeur far outspread,
That wakes the vaulted roof o'erhead

With cannonading din, and boist❜rous sound,

Which echoes and re-echoes round

The misty chambers of the sky,
As if, to mighty conquest driven,

Rolled by the battle cars of heaven.

Next rain descends in copious showers
From many a sable cloud that lours,
And rudely waved the pine-tree rocks
Beneath the gusty, blustering shocks
Of winds that ever and anon

Dash fiercely thwart the horizon.
These pass'd away, a calm succeeds,
And incense floats from verdant meads,
While birds trill forth their songs again,
And fill the air with joyous strain,
Thus chanting sweet with one accord

Their carols to the thunder's Lord.

Composed at Brawby, June 14, 1888, after witnessing one of the severe thunderstorms to which this part of Yorkshire is often subject in early spring and summer.

OUTWARD BOUND.

A RATTLE of wheels on the pavement,
A cluster of folks on the quay;
Bales, boxes, and bustle around us,
As our ship gets ready for sea.

Clink, clink, clink, clink goes the capstan,
Blue Peter is flying above;

So, good-bye! God bless you, my darling!
We're off. Fare you well, dearest love!

See, slowly, yet surely, we're moving,
Past old jetties worn by the tide ;
Our dear ones stand gazing behind us,
Among them mine own bonnie bride.

Now, hoist to the davits the boats, boys;
Then up, and the topsails cast loose;
Next jibs, mainsail, mizzen, and foresail,
They'll look like the wings of a goose.

Aye, aye, sir! Yo ho! Yo heave! Yo ho!
Yo heave ho! Yo ho! Yo heave ho!

Thus braces and cleets, boats, canvas, and sheets

Stand secure both above and below.

Then, on like a racer the Merrick

Bounds, dashes, and churns the blue sea;

The waves in our wake are like silver,
And track out our path merrily.

The seagulls around us are flying,

The fisherman's boat passes by;

And, 'Where bound ?' is shouted towards us. 'For Rio!' we shout in reply.

She passes away in the distance,

The land next recedes from our view;

Save only the gleam of a lighthouse,

Which whispers a last faint adieu.

The sun in the west robed in beauty,

Sinks down like a globe of red flame,
'Neath the trackless world of blue waters,
Away, far away on the main.

The moon, queen of night, with her courtiers,—
The glittering stars in their race,—
Now resume the duties of guardians,
As darkness creeps onward apace.

Full flooding the scene with its beauty,
Calm, mellowing all with its ray,
Till the night is crowned with glory,
A glory reflected from day.

Alone, all alone, on the ocean,

The billows in ranks race along ;

The cordage is piping its music,

With chorus, deep, mellow, and strong.

Alone, all alone, on the ocean,

And now, far away from the land

Our thoughts flowing on with the billows,
Still carry us back to its strand,

Where dear ones we know are now praying
For those on this strong heaving wave:

Great Father, whose hand holds the waters,
From dangers protect them and save!

'Tis thus another long voyage is entered,
Another long journey's begun;

And on thus, till mortality's ended,

The partings of life go and come.

Composed at Brawby, July 11, 1888, when thinking of the bustle on the quay at St. Mary's, Scilly Isles, as the steamer Lady of the Isles got ready for her journey to Penzance.

A SONG TO THE PLOUGH.

THE soldier may boast of the fields he has won,
The sailor of ships and the sea ;

They have triumphs, I know, but wherever I go
The bonny bright ploughshare for me.

No widow doth mourn o'er the fields that it wins,
Nor orphan with deep sobbing cry;

But all nations delight in this implement bright,
And the meads where its victories lie.

A country is glad when its armies appear

With cornflowers bright in their train;

For no famine it fears from those countless gold spears Of rich bearded, ripe, rustling grain.