HARDWICK DRUMMOND RAWNSLEY.

RAWNSLEY, HARDWICK DRUMMOND, an English poet and clergyman; born at Shiplake-on-Thames, September 28, 1850. He was educated at Uppingham and Balliol College, Oxford, and after taking holy orders in the English Church was for a time engaged in clerical work at Bristol, and later became Vicar of Crosthwaite, Keswick. His especial excellence as a poet is in the sonnet. He has published "A Book of Bristol Sonnets" (1877); "Sonnets at the English Lakes" (1881); "Village Sermons" (1883-85); "Sonnets Round the Coast" (1887); "Edward Thring: Teacher and Poet" (1889); "Poems, Ballads, and Bucolics" (1890); "Notes for the Nile" (1892); "Valete: Tennyson and Other Memorial Poems" (1893); "Idylls and Lyrics of the Nile" (1894); "Literary Associations of the English Lakes" (1894).

SERVICE IN THE OLD PARISH CHURCH, WHITBY.

WE climbed the steep where headless Edwin lies —
The king who struck for Christ, and striking fell;
Beyond the harbor, tolled the beacon bell;
Saint Mary's peal sent down her glad replies;
So entered we the church: white galleries,
Cross-stanchions, frequent stairs, dissembled well
A ship's mid-hold, we almost felt the swell
Beneath, and caught o'erhead the sailors' cries.
But as we heard the congregational sound,

And reasonable voice of common prayer

And common praise, new wind was in our sails, -
Heart called to heart, beyond the horizon's bound
With Christ we steered, through angel-haunted air,
A ship that meets all storms, rides out all gales!

THE JET WORKER.

CLOSE prisoner in his narrow, dusty room,

He bends and breathes above his whirring wheel;
The treadle murmurs sad beneath his heel,
And sad he works his jewels of the tomb,

Emblems of sorrow from the darkened womb

Of worlds on which the Deluge set its seal
Offerings from death to death: he needs must feel
A little of his craft's incessant gloom.

But, as the pewter disk to brightness runs,
On Iris wings light shoots across the dust,
And leaps out joyous from the heart of jet.
Lord of the Iris bow and thousand suns,
By wheels of work, if men will only trust,
In darkest souls Thy life and light are set.

CLEVELAND.

How free and fair the land from Esk to Tees,
Where Gower grew great, and Roger Ascham strolled,
Where that old Bible-rhymer, cloistered, told

His Saxon tale to sound of Whitby seas.
Fragrant of salt, the sunny upland lees

To purple moors, by lines of hedge are rolled;
The corn plates all the seaward cliffs with gold,
And deep in streamlet hollows hide the trees.
Three harvests bless the laborer: fisher-sails

Hunt through the gleaming night the silver droves;
And though great Vulcan's stithy sweats and rings,
And men have bruised the hills and mined the coves,
Still by his long-backed barn the thatcher sings,

And in the barn is heard the sound of flails.

VOL. XVIL-20

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN, an American artist and poet; born in Chester County, Pa., March 12, 1822; died at New York, May 11, 1872. At the age of fifteen he made his way to Cincinnati, and not long afterward he became a portrait-painter in the West. In 1842 he took up his residence at Boston. In 1850, and again in 1853, he went to Italy in order to study art. He returned to the United States a short time before the outbreak of the Civil War, during which he composed several patriotic ballads, one of which, "Sheridan's Ride," became very popular. His first volume of poems appeared in 1847. It was followed the next year by a collection of 66 Lays and Ballads." A complete collection of his "Poems" was published in 1867. He possessed considerable merit as a painter, and made some not unsuccessful attempts as a sculptor. During most of the late years of his life he resided chiefly at Rome.

Swims round the purple peaks remote;

Round purple peaks

It sails, and seeks

Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,

A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague, and dim,

The mountains swim;

While on Vesuvius's misty brim,

With outstretched hands,

The gray smoke stands

O'erlooking the volcanic lands,

O'erveiled with vines,

She glows and shines

Among her future oil and wines.

Her children, hid

The cliffs amid,

Are gambolling with the gambolling kid;
Or down the walls,

With tipsy calls,

Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher's child,

With tresses wild,

Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips

Up from the south at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,