Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretched above the spring. -Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered,
A Cup of stone received the living Well;
Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,
And built a House of Pleasure in the dell.

And near the Fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined,-
Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer-days were long,
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant Bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.-
But there is matter for a second rhyme,

And I to this would add another tale.

PART SECOND.

THE moving accident is not my trade :
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three Aspens at three corners of a square ;
And one, not four yards distant, near a Well.

What this imported I could ill divine :

And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three Pillars standing in a line,

The last stone-Pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were gray, with neither arms nor head; Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green; So that you just might say, as then I said, "Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here,
And Nature here were willing to decay.

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost,
When one, who was in shepherd's garb attired,
Came up the hollow :-Him did I accost,
And what this place might be I then inquired.

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. "A jolly place," said he, "in times of old! But something ails it now; the spot is curst.

"You see these lifeless stumps of aspen wood-
Some say that they are beeches, others elms-
These were the Bower; and here a Mansion stood,
The finest palace of a hundred realms !

"The Arbour does its own condition tell;

You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream;
But as to the great Lodge! you might as well
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream.

"There's neither dog nor heifer, horse nor sheep,
Will wet his lips within that Cup of stone;
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep,
This water doth send forth a dolorous groan.

"Some say that here a murder has been done,
And blood cries out for blood: but, for my part,
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun,
That it was all for that unhappy Hart.

"What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have past!

Even from the topmost stone, upon the steep,

Are but three bounds-and look, Sir, at this last-
-O Master! it has been a cruel leap.

"For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race;
And in my simple mind we cannot tell

What cause the Hart might have to love this place,
And come and make his deathbed near the Well.

"Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank,
Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide;
This water was perhaps the first he drank
When he had wandered from his mother's side.

"In April here beneath the scented thorn

He heard the birds their morning carols sing;
And he, perhaps, for aught we know, was born
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring.

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade;

The sun on drearier hollow never shone ;

So will it be, as I have often said,

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone."

"Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well;
Small difference lies between thy creed and mine:
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell;
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.

"The Being, that is in the clouds and air,
That is in the green leaves among the groves,
Maintains a deep and reverential care

For the unoffending creatures whom he loves. "The Pleasure-house is dust :-behind, before, This is no common waste, no common gloom; But Nature, in due course of time, once more Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom.

"She leaves these objects to a slow decay,

That what we are, and have been, may be known; But, at the coming of the milder day,

These monuments shall all be overgrown.

"One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide,

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals,

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels."

THE FORCE OF PRAYER;

OR,

THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON PRIORY.

A TRADITION.

“What is good for a bootless bene? "

With these dark words begins my Tale;

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring
When Prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene ?”
The Falconer to the Lady said;

And she made answer 66 'ENDLESS SORROW!"
For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And from the look of the Falconer's eye;
And from the love which was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

-Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a Greyhound in a leash,

To let slip upon buck or doe.

The Pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

This Striding-place is called THE Strid,
A name which it took of yore:

A thousand years hath it borne that name,
And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

Shall bound across THE STRID?

He sprang in glee,—for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep? But the Greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap.