Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns or pratings rude.

66

Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'

"And now,

while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep,

Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

"My spirits flag, my hopes decay, Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a boding seems to say,

Countess, prepare, thy end is near!""

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour; for never more
That hapless countess e'er was seen

And in that manor now no more

Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour

Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids with fearful glance
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the countess' fall,
As wandering onwards they 've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

!

William Julius Mickle.

Dale Abbey.

DALE ABBEY.

A SOLITARY arch in the middle of an open meadow, and a small oratory more ancient than the monastery itself, - now the chapel of ease for the hamlet, - -are alone conspicuous of all the magnificent structures which once occupied this ground. The site is about five miles northeast from Derby.

I.

HE glory hath departed from thee, Dale!

THE

Thy gorgeous pageant of monastic pride,

A power that once the power of kings defied,
Which truth and reason might in vain assail,
In mock humility usurped this vale,

And lorded o'er the region far and wide;
Darkness to light, evil to good allied,

Had wrought a charm, which made all hearts to quail.

What gave that power dominion on this ground,

Age after age? - the Word of God was bound!
At length the mighty captive burst from thrall,
O'erturned the spiritual bastile in its march,
And left of ancient grandeur this sole arch,

Whose stones cry out,

fall."

66

Thus Babylon herself shall

II.

More beautiful in ruin than in prime,

Methinks this frail yet firm memorial stands,

The work of heads laid low, and buried hands:

Now slowly mouldering to the touch of time,
It looks abroad, unconsciously sublime,

Where sky above and earth beneath expands:
And yet a nobler relic still demands

The grateful homage of a passing rhyme.

Beneath the cliff yon humble roof behold!
Poor as our Saviour's birthplace; yet a fold,
Where the good shepherd, in this quiet vale,
Gathers his flock, and feeds them, as of old,
With bread from heaven: I change my note;
all hail!

The glory of the Lord is risen upon thee, Dale! James Montgomery.

Darley Dale.

A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE.

T

IS said that to the brow of yon fair hill

Two brothers clomb, and, turning face from face,

Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still

Or feed, each planted on that lofty place

A chosen tree; then, eager to fulfil

Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they

In opposite directions urged their way

Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial; the trees grew,
And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again

Embraced those brothers upon earth's wide plain;
Nor aught of mutual joy or sorrow knew,
Until their spirits mingled in the sea

That to itself takes all, Eternity.

William Wordsworth.

Dart, the River.

THE RIVER DART.

THE quiet of the moonlight hour

Is stealing softly o'er my heart;
It has a deep yet nameless power,
That language cannot all impart.
I turn my steed upon the hill,

The silver Dart glides on below;
And all the vale, so lone and still,
Is bathed in one broad moonlight glow.

Beneath the garish beam of day

I've often marked this scene before,
When field and hill and moorland gray
One aspect broad of beauty wore.
I've seen the hills' majestic sweep
Reflected from the waters clear,

But never felt a charm so deep

As this which now enchains me here.

It is the solemn, silent thought,

Evoked by this impressive scene,