Ere any come like her who fought For France, for freedom, for the King; Who counsel of redemption brought Whence even the armed Archangel's wing Might weary sore in voyaging; Who heard her Voices cry "Be free!" Such Maid no later human spring Shall see!

Saints Michael, Catherine, Margaret, Who sowed the seed that Thou must reap, If eyes of angels may be wet, And if the Saints have leave to weep, In Paradise one pain they keep, Maiden! one mortal memory, One sorrow that can never sleep, For Thee!

(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)

Helen, thy bowling is to me Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore, Which gently broke the wickets three: From Alfred few could smack a four: Most difficult to score!

The music of the moaning sea, The rattle of the flying bails, The grey sad spires, the tawny sails - What memories they bring to me, Beholding thee!

Upon our old monastic pitch, How sportsmanlike I see thee stand! The leather in thy lily hand, Oh, Helen of the yorkers, which Are nobly planned!

Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett, Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they? Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet That drove the bails in disarray? And Small that would, like Orpheus, play Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy? { 2} Booker, and Quiddington, and May? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!

And where is Lambert, that would get The stumps with balls that broke astray? And Mann, whose balls would ricochet In almost an unholy way (So do baseballers "pitch" to-day) George Lear, that seldom let a bye, And Richard Nyren, grave and gray? Beneath the daisies, there they lie!

(Editor：television)