The miller on the purple down Is listening to the rising wind Sweep headlong on toward the town; He knows enough has stayed behind To drive the sails and turn the wheel; The creaking stone from every plank Shakes off the white dust of the meal Upon the sacks, ranged there in rank. The fisher by the river-side Has watched all day the buoyant float, Though skies grow flushed with crimson pride, His changeless eye no beauties note. In melancholy, lonesome sport Gazes like beauty in a glass; His glittering spoil but newly caught Far up the rocky mountain stream The leaf upon Beneath the boughs all red and brown, And through a cleft you see the brooks Babble together to the town. The page from castle parapet Looks o'er the orchards in the vale, Sees in the woods the crimson globe Flame bright upon the distant sail. And far beneath the lichened wall The distant river glides away; The wind that rends the poplars tall Stays with the flowers to kiss and play. The breeze that stirs his bonnet's plume, The vane upon the old church tower Shines like a star above the trees; O'er gabled roof the sounding hour The fisher's boat is in the bay, And rocking by the weedy shore ; His shouting children leap and play, And bid the hush'd waves louder roar, The gulls scream floating round the crag, The breakers whiten all the reef, The sea-bird, poised upon the jag, Fills the grey air with shrieks of grief. A sudden gloom fills all the town, The wind comes sighing o'er the moors, And wandering, moaning up and down, Shakes with its trembling hand the doors,— When slowly through the market-place A stranger rode, but spoke to none; A broad hat darkened all his face, He never looked up at the sun. The dealers stopped to stare and gaze, On every gossip's face amaze, In every mother's eye dismay; The matrons at the open pane Stayed all at once their spinning-wheels, The old wife hushed her wise old saying, The threads ceased running from the reels. A whisper through the long street ran— Unto the tailor's earnest face; Both mouths pursed up, and eyes half closed, Afraid to let the secret out; The deaf man stared, half angry, posed, For none into his ear would shout; The pilgrim, by the way-side cross, Ceased half unsaid his votive prayer; The knight pulled up his weary horse, The ploughman staid his glittering share; The miller stops the noisy mill, The ringers in the belfry rest, All through the valley to the hill Bear down the rain-clouds from the west. Another year-the tall grass grew, At noon unmelted lay the dew, THE HORN OF ULPHUS. [The horn of Ulphus, a Saxon chief, is still preserved in the sacristy of York Minster. It is of immense size, and is probably the tip of an elephant's tusk. It is curiously carved, and has become from age of a rich mellow colour. Ulphus is said to have filled it full of wine when he presented his lands, kneeling at the high altar, and as he rose drained it at a draught to the honour of St. Peter. We have, by a fair poetical license, supposed it to have been used at civic banquets by the monarchs who have at various times visited the northern capital. The Horn, we may add, is undoubtedly of Eastern origin; and, if not brought from Antioch by some Roman proconsul, may have been part of a crusader's spoil at Acre or Damietta.-York Cathedral is dedicated to St. Peter.] BEARDED kings have drained thee oft, |