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alone.

      The poor Hart toils along the mountain side;

       I will not stop to tell how far he fled,

       Nor will I mention 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 gaz’d 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 had fetch’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 gaz’d, and gaz’d upon that darling place.

      And turning up the hill, it was at least

       Nine roods of sheer ascent, Sir Walter found

       Three several marks which with his hoofs the 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 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 perform’d what he had said,

       The fame whereof through many a land did ring.

      Ere thrice the moon into her port had steer’d,

       A cup of stone receiv’d 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 I then inquir’d.

      The Shepherd stopp’d, and that same story told

       Which in my former rhyme I have rehears’d.

       ”A jolly 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.

      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,

      

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