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Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, Till now Such sight was never seen by living eyes! 'Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,

Down to the very fountain where he lies!

I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, And a small Arbour, made for rural joy; "Twill be the Traveller's shed, the Pilgrim's

cot,

• A place of Love for damsels that are coy.

A cunning artist will I have to frame
A Bason for that fountain in the dell;

And they, who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap
Well.

And gallant brute! to make thy praises known, 'Another monument shall here be rais'd: Three several Pillars, each a rough hewn

stone,

And planted where thy hoofs the turf have graz❜d.

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

And with the dancers, and the minstrel's 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.

And soon the Knight performed what he had said,

The fame whereof thro' many a land did ring.

Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer'd, A Cup of stone received the living Well; Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd, And built a House of Pleasure in the dell.

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall With trailing plants and trees were intertwin'd, 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 journey'd with his 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 curl 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 chanc'd that I saw, standing in a dell,
Three Aspins, 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 just might say, as then I said, "Here in old time the hand of man has been.”

I look'd upon the hills both far and near;
More doleful place did never eye survey:
It seem'd 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 attir'd,
Came up the hollow. Him did I accost,
And what this place might be of him inquir'd.

The Shepherd stop'd, and that same story told Which in my former rhyme I have rehears❜d: "Ajolly place (said he) in times of old!

But something ails it now; the spot is curs'd!

You see these lifeless stumps of Aspin 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.

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'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 á Murder has been done, • And Blood cries out for Blood! But for my part,

'I've guess'd, 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 pass'd!

To this place from the stone upon the steep • Are but three bounds, and look, Sir, at this

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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 death-bed near the Well.

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Here on the grass, perhaps, asleep he sank, Lull'd by this fountain, in the summer-tide; This water was, perhaps, the first he drank 'When he had wander'd from his mother's side.

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