And gleaming and steaming and streaming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clash

ing,

And so never ending, but always descending,

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproarAnd this way the water comes down at Lodore.

THE OLD WOMAN OF BERKELEY.

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE raven croak'd as she sat at her meal,
And the old woman knew what he said,
And she grew pale at the raven's tale,
And sicken'd and went to her bed.

"Now fetch me my children, and fetch them with speed,"

The Old Woman of Berkeley said,

"The monk my son, and my daughter the nun, Bid them hasten, or I shall be dead."

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
Their way to Berkeley went,

And they have brought with pious thought
The holy sacrament.

The old woman shriek'd as they enter'd her door,

'Twas fearful her shrieks to hear,

"Now take the sacrament away

For mercy, my children dear."

Her lip it trembled with agony,

The sweat ran down her brow, "I have tortures in store for evermore, Oh! spare me, my children, now!"

Away they sent the sacrament,

The fit it left her weak,

She look'd at her children with ghastly eyes
And faintly struggled to speak.

"All kind of sin I have rioted in,
And the judgment now must be,
But I secured my children's souls,
Oh! pray, my children, for me.

"I have suck'd the breath of sleeping babes,
The fiends have been my slaves,
I have 'nointed myself with infant's fat,
And feasted on rifled graves.

"And the Devil will fetch me now in

My witchcrafts to atone,

And I who have rifled the dead man's grave · Shall never have rest in my own.

"Bless, I intreat, my winding sheet,

My children, I beg of you!

And with holy water sprinkle my shroud,

And sprinkle my coffin too.

"And let me be chain'd in my coffin of stone,

And fasten it strong, I implore,

With iron bars, and with three chains

Chain it to the church floor.

"And bless the chains and sprinkle them,

And let fifty priests stand round,

Who night and day the mass may say
Where I lie on the ground.

"And see that fifty choristers

Beside the bier attend me,

And day and night by the taper's light

With holy hymns defend me.

"Let the church bells all, both great and small,

Be toll'd by night and day,

To drive from thence the fiends who come

To bear my body away.

"And ever have the church door barr'd

After the even-song,

And I beseech you, children dear,

Let the bars and bolts be strong.

"And let this be three days and nights
My wretched corpse to save,

Keep me so long from the fiendish throng,
And then I may rest in my grave."

The Old Woman of Berkeley laid her down,
And her eyes grew deadly dim,

Short came her breath and the struggle of death
Did loosen every limb.

They bless'd the old woman's winding sheet
With rites and prayers due;

With holy water they sprinkled her shroud,
And they sprinkled her coffin too.

And they chain'd her in her coffin of stone,
And with iron barr'd it down,

And in the church with three strong chains
They chain'd it to the ground

And they bless'd the chains and sprinkled them,

And fifty priests stood round, By night and day the mass to say Where she lay on the ground.

And fifty sacred choristers

Beside the bier attend her

Who day and night by the tapers' light
Should with holy hymns defend her.

To see the priests and choristers
It was a goodly sight,

Each holding, as it were a staff,

A taper burning bright.

And the church bells all, both great and small,

Did toll so loud and long,

And they have barr'd the church door hard,

After the even-song.

And the first night the tapers' light

Burnt steadily and clear,

But they without a hideous rout

Of angry fiends could hear;

A hideous roar at the church door,

Like a long thunder peal,

And the priests they pray'd and the choristers sung Louder in fearful zeal.

Loud toll'd the bell, the priests pray'd well,

The tapers they burnt bright,

The monk her son, and her daughter the nun,
They told their beads all night.