By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood,
Till on his course obliquely shone
The narrow valley of St. John,
Down sloping to the western sky,
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie.
Right glad to feel those beams again,
The king drew up his charger's rein;
With gauntlet raised he screened his sight,
As dazzled with the level light,

And, from beneath his glove of mail,
Scanned at his ease the lovely vale,
While 'gainst the sun his armor bright
Gleamed ruddy like the beacon's light.

Paled in by many a lofty hill,

The narrow dale lay smooth and still,
And, down its verdant bosom led,
A winding brooklet found its bed.
But, midmost of the vale, a mound
Arose, with airy turrets crowned,
Buttress and rampire's circling bound,
And mighty keep and tower;
Seemed some primeval giant's hand
The castle's massive walls had planned,
A ponderous bulwark, to withstand
Ambitious Nimrod's power.
Above the moated entrance slung,
The balanced drawbridge trembling hung,
As jealous of a foe;

Wicket of oak, as iron hard,

With iron studded, clenched, and barred,

And pronged portcullis, joined to guard
The gloomy pass below.

But the gray walls no banners crowned,
Upon the watch-tower's airy round
No warder stood his horn to sound,

No guard beside the bridge was found,
And, where the Gothic gateway frowned,
Glanced neither bill nor bow.

Sir Walter Scott.

A

St. Keyne.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

WELL there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below."

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh;

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,

At the well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it,

66

And he bade the stranger hail.

Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he; "For, an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For, an if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well;

And, before the angel summoned her,
She laid on the water a spell,

"If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life;

"But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then!

دو

The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?

He to the Cornish-man said;

But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head:

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch;

But i'faith she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church."

Robert Southey.

St. Leonard's.

LINES

ON THE VIEW FROM ST. LEONARD'S.

[AIL to thy face and odors, glorious Sea!

not,

Great, beauteous Being! in whose breath and smile
My heart beats calmer, and my very mind
Inhales salubrious thoughts. How welcomer
Thy murmurs than the murmurs of the world!
Though like the world thou fluctuatest, thy din
To me is peace, thy restlessness repose.
Even gladly I exchange yon spring-green lanes
With all the darling field-flowers in their prime,

And gardens haunted by the nightingale's
Long trills and gushing ecstasies of song,
For these wild headlands, and the sea-mews clang.

With thee beneath my windows, pleasant Sea,
I long not to o'erlook earth's fairest glades
And green savannahs, — earth has not a plain
So boundless or so beautiful as thine ;

The eagle's vision cannot take it in;

The lightning's wing, too weak to sweep its space,
Sinks half-way o'er it like a wearied bird;

It is the mirror of the stars, where all
Their hosts within the concave firmament,
Gay marching to the music of the spheres,
Can see themselves at once.

Nor on the stage
Of rural landscape are there lights and shades
Of more harmonious dance and play than thine.
How vividly this moment brightens forth,
Between gray parallel and leaden breadths,
A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league,
Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck,
And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing
The semblance of a meteor.

Mighty Sea!

Chameleon-like thou changest, but there's love
In all thy change, and constant sympathy

With yonder Sky, thy mistress; from her brow Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colors on Thy faithful bosom; morning's milky white,

Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve;