'And in the summer time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour,

And with the dancers and the minstrels' song,
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.

'Till the foundations of the mountains fail,
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!'

Then home he went and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretch'd 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 for 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 wandering paramour,
And with the dancers and the minstrels' 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 II.

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 to 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 grey, with neither arms nor head;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green,
So that you might just 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 I did 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 those lifeless stumps of aspen wood— Some say that they are beeches, others elmsThese 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 the 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 lastO 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 death-bed near the well.

I

"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 flowering 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.'

'Grey-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 a 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.'

Before the stout harvesters falleth the grain,
As when the strong storm-wind is reaping the plain,
And loiters the boy in the briery lane ;

But yonder aslant comes the silvery rain,
Like a long line of spears brightly burnish'd and tall.

Adown the white highway like cavalry fleet,
It dashes the dust with its numberless feet.
Like a murmurless school, in their leafy retreat,
The wild birds sit listening the drops round -
them beat;

And the boy crouches close to the blackberry wall.

The swallows alone take the storm on their wing, And, taunting the tree-sheltered labourers, sing, Like pebbles the rain breaks the face of the spring, While a bubble darts up from each widening ring; And the boy in dismay hears the loud shower fall.

But soon are the harvesters tossing their sheaves; The robin darts out from his bower of leaves; peereth forth from the moss-covered

The wren

eaves;

And the rain-spatter'd urchin now gladly perceives That the beautiful bow bendeth over them all.

T. B. Read