LINES UPON MY SISTER'S PORTRAIT.

The castle towers of Bareacres are fair upon the lea,

Where the cliffs of bonny Diddlesex rise up from out the sea:

I stood upon the donjon keep and view'd the country o'er,

I saw the lands of Bareacres for fifty miles or more.

I stood upon the donjon keep — it is a sacred place,—

Where floated for eight hundred years the banner of my race;

Argent, a dexter sinople, and gules an azure field:

There ne'er was nobler cognizance on knightly warrior's shield.

The first time England saw the shield‘ twas round a Norman neck,

On board a ship from Valery, King William was on deck.

A Norman lance the colors wore, in Hastings’ fatal fray —

St. Willibald for Bareacres!‘ twas double gules that day!

O Heaven and sweet St. Willibald! in many a battle since

A loyal-hearted Bareacres has ridden by his Prince!

At Acre with Plantagenet, with Edward at Poictiers,

The pennon of the Bareacres was foremost on the spears!

‘ Twas pleasant in the battle-shock to hear our war-cry ringing:

Oh grant me, sweet St. Willibald, to listen to such singing!

Three hundred steel-clad gentlemen, we drove the foe before us,

And thirty score of British bows kept twanging to the chorus!

O knights, my noble ancestors! and shall I never hear

St. Willibald for Bareacres through battle ringing clear?

I'd cut me off this strong right hand a single hour to ride,

And strike a blow for Bareacres, my fathers, at your side!

Dash down, dash down, yon Mandolin, beloved sister mine!

Those blushing lips may never sing the glories of our line:

Our ancient castles echo to the clumsy feet of churls,

The spinning-jenny houses in the mansion of our Earls.

Sing not, sing not, my Angeline! in days so base and vile,

‘ Twere sinful to be happy,‘ twere sacrilege to smile.

I'll hie me to my lonely hall, and by its cheerless hob

I'll muse on other days, and wish — and wish I were — A SNOB.