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
Among the Crossfell hills,

And, resting in its rocky grove,

Sat listening to the rills;

The while, to their sweet undersong,
The birds sang blithe around,

And the soft west-wind awoke the wood
To an intermitting sound.

Louder or fainter, as it rose
Or died away, was borne
The harmony of merry bells
From Brough that pleasant morn.
"Why are the merry bells of Brough,
My friend, so few?" said I;
"They disappoint the expectant ear
Which they should gratify.

"One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four;
'Tis still one, two, three, four;
Mellow and silvery are the tones,
But I wish the bells were more! "

"What, art thou critical?" quoth he; "Eschew that heart's disease That seeketh for displeasure

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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
Of old John Brunskill's kine.

"On Stanemore's side, one summer eve,
John Brunskill sate to see
His herds in yonder Borrodaile
Come winding up the lea.

"Behind them, on the lowland's verge,
In the evening light serene,
Brough's silent tower, then newly built
By Blenkinsop, was seen.

"Slowly they came in long array,
With loitering pace at will;
At times a low from them was heard,
Far off, for all was still.

"The hills returned that lonely sound Upon the tranquil air;

The only sound it was, which then
Awoke the echoes there.

"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
His comrade, which, I ween,
Might at the Spital well be heard,
And in all dales between.

"Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs
The eastern wind upon its wings
The mighty voice could bear;
And Appleby would hear the sound,
Methinks, when skies are fair.'

“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
For many an age ring on,
John Brunskill will remembered be,
When he is dead and gone,

"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
From this time forth partake,
When I remember Helbeck woods,
For old John Brunskill's sake.

"He knew how wholesome it would be,
Among these wild wide fells
And upland vales, to catch at times
The sound of Christian bells;

"What feelings and what impulses
That cadence might convey
To herdsman, or to shepherd boy,
Whiling in indolent employ
The solitary day;

"That when his brethren were convened To meet for social prayer,

He too, admonished by the call,
In spirit might be there.

"Or when a glad thanksgiving sound,
Upon the winds of heaven,

Was sent to speak a nation's joy,
For some great blessing given,

"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
An English impulse there."

Such thoughts were in the old man's mind,
When he that eve looked down
From Stanemore's side, on Borrodaile,
And on the distant town.

And had I store of wealth, methinks,
Another herd of kine,
John Brunskill, I would freely give,
That they may crune with thine.

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