The Old English Manor-House. It dawns in the manor-garden ; The air is blue and calm ; The black yew-hedge is gray with dew, The balsam sweet with balm ; The lilies’ silver chalice Brims over with last night’s rain ; The black-bird sings his golden tune, Then tries it o’er again. The fountain tunes its music faint ; The scent of herb and flower, The bloom of the dew, the sunshine plots, The season, nay, the hour— All help to make a Paradise Of that Eden ruined now, Spite of leaves in the nest, and moss on the wall, And canker on the bough. The house is a stately ruin ; Though the park-gate’s standing still, Crowned with gilt spheres and motto— ‘ The river grows from the rill ;’ And over the barren stubbles You hear the partridge call, And the screaming hare flies from the stoat, Round the warren’s old mossed wall. The home of the brave dead gentlemen Is now but a heap of stone ; The flesh is gone from its stalwart limbs, And left but the ghastly bone. The wall-flower in the chimney blooms, The grass on the window sill, Yet still on the gates runs the motto proud— ‘ The river grows from the rill.’ W. T.