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"'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,
No screen, no fence could I discover,

And then the wind! in faith it was
A wind full ten times over.

I look'd around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag,-and off I ran,

Head foremost, through the driving rair
The shelter of the crag to gain;
And, as I am a man,

Instead of jutting crag, I found
A woman seated on the ground.
"I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face!-it was enough for me;
I turn'd about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!'

And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know,

She shudders, and you hear her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!""

"But what's the Thorn-and what's the pond

And what's the hill of moss to her?

And what's the creeping breeze that comes

The little pond to stir?"

"I cannot tell; but some will say

She hang'd her baby on the tree;
Some say she drown'd it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond:
But all and each agree,

The little babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

"I've heard the moss is spotted red

With drops of that poor infant's blood.
But kill a new-born infant thus,

I do not think she could!

Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby, and a baby's face,

And that it looks at you;

Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain

The baby looks at you again.

"And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones

With spades they would have sought.
But then the beauteous hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass,-it shook upon the ground!

But all do still aver

The little babe is buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

"I cannot tell how this may be,
But plain it is, the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
To drag it to the ground;

And this I know-full many a time
When she was on the mountain high,

By day, and in the silent night,

When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!""

HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond, in Yorkshire and near the side of the road which leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monumenta spoken of in the second part of the following poem, which monuments do now exist as } have there described them.

THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a summer's cloud;
He turn'd aside towards a vassal's door,
And "Bring another horse!" he cried aloud.
"Another horse !" that shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's hail,
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar;
But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain,
Brach, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight halloo'd, he chid and cheer'd them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and one by one,
The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race!
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
-This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,

Nor will I mei tion by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy;
He neither smack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious act;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd;
And foaming like a mountain cataract.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd:
His nose half touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath has ietch'd,
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Was never man in such a joyful case !)

Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west.
And gazed and gazed upon that darling place.

And climbing up the hill (it was at least
Nine roods of sheer ascent), Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted beast
Had left imprinted on the verdant ground.

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 basin 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 raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
"And in the summer time, when days are long,
I will come hither with my paramour;
And with the dancers, and the mins: el'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.
-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 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 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 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 coarse 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,
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 hath been."
I look'd upon the hill 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 attired,
Came up the hollow: him did I accost,
And what this place might be I then inquired.
The shepherd stopp'd, 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 cursed.
"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 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! 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,
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.
"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 selfsame spring.
"But now here's 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 mourn'd 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;

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