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's side, Whilst million-winged deaths were whistling round, Now feels his heart beat high; strong throbs each pulse, His kindling eyes flash fire: upright he stands, As when on some dread, memorable day He saw the Frenchmen strike, or Spaniards burn. His tender spouse, the dear, the soft reward Of all his toils, astonish'd with the din, Clings to his side, half-pleased and half-afraid; When softer echoes roll the distant roar, She smiles; but when the air-affrighting guns With iron clamours shake th' impending rocks, She trembling presses hard her husband's hand, And weeps to think the perils he has 'scap'd.

"But hark! 'tis silent! see, the fleet retires! The mellow horns now pour victorious sounds, Whilst every rock returns the softened strain. O! now for Shakspeare, or for Milton's muse, To paint this mingled tide of harmony! Each cliff, each rock, each mountain, wood, and dale, Return a varied note; it floats in air; It mixes, meets, returns; 'tis soft, 'tis loud: As if th' unnumber'd spirits of the rock Held their a?rial concerts 'midst the hills; And to his golden harp each join'd his voice, To welcome to their bower the 'Fairy Queen.'

"Thus joyous and delightful pass'd the day, Yet not unruffled was this tide of joy: The fair, the innocent Amelia was The pride and flower of all the virgin throng! Her long Damoetas loved, she too loved him, But looks alone revealed the mutual flame, For virgin modesty had bound their thoughts In chains, as yet unbroken. On this day, Whilst she in rapture viewed th' enchanting scene , Her vessel rolling, headlong plunged her in The blue profound! She sank, then rose again; Then sank, to rise no more! Damoetas, near, Beheld her fall: of life regardless then, He leaped into the flood; with nervous arm He cut the crystal deep, and plunging down, Seized, and brought her up again to life.

"Restored now, she op'd her radiant eyes, And looking gratitude ineffable, 'Is it then you, Damoetas? you whom long My virgin heart hath own'd!' She could no more: The rosy hue again forsook her cheek, The light her eyes, and pallid death awhile Seemed to return and re-demand his prey. What then, Damoetas, were the dire alarms That rent thy manly bosom? Love, despair, Grief, and astonishment, exert at once The utmost of their force to tear thy soul! But see, the rose again resumes its seat Upon her cheek! again her op'ning eye Beams softened lustre! Kneeling by her side Damoetas press'd her hand; in falt'ring words Propos'd his am'rous suit. Her parents near, Relieved now from the heart-corroding fear, First poured in tender words their grateful hearts, Then to Damoetas gave the willing hand Of their beloved Amelia. Instant joy Flushed lively in his cheek, and fired his heart With all the rapt'rous bliss of mutual love. He tried in vain to speak, for words, alas! Could ill express tumultuous joys like his; He stammer'd, blush'd, and thanked them in thought.

"And now the fiery charioteer of day Drove down the western steep his blazing car, When homeward all return to close their sports, And usher in with dance the sable night. The sprightly music sounds, the youths advance, And blooming virgins from the beauteous group: Then joined in couples, active as the light, They tread the mazy dance; the swains the while Join in sweet toil, and press the given hand, And slyly talk of love; or else, askance, Speak by their looks the feelings of the heart."

THE SHEPHERD OF GREEN-HEAD GHYLL.

A TALE OF GRASMERE VALE.

If from the public way you turn your steps Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll, You will suppose that with an upright path Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. But, courage! for around that boisterous brook The mountains have all opened out themselves, And made a hidden valley of their own. No habitation can be seen; but they Who journey thither find themselves alone With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites That overhead are sailing in the sky. It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this dell But for one object which you might pass by-- Might see and notice not. Beside the brook Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones! And to that place a story appertains, Which, though it be ungarnished with events, Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, Or for the summer shade. It was the first Of those domestic tales that spake to me Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men Whom I already loved:--not verily For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Where was their occupation and abode. And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy Careless of books, yet having felt the power Of nature, by the gentle agency Of natural objects led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think On man, the heart of man, and human life. Therefore, although it be a history Homely and rude, I will relate the same For the delight of a few natural hearts: And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake Of youthful poets, who among these hills Will be my second self when I am gone.

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name; An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen, Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt And watchful more than ordinary men. Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes When others heeded not, he heard the south Make subterraneous music, like the noise Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock Bethought him, and he to himself would say, "The winds are now devising work for me!" And, truly, at all times, the storm--that drives The traveller to a shelter--summoned him Up to the mountains: he had been alone Amid the heart of many thousand mists, That came to him and left him on the heights. So lived he till his eightieth year was past. And grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts. Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed The common air; the hills, which he so oft Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed So many incidents upon his mind Of hardship, skill, or courage, joy or fear; Which like a book preserved the memory Of the dumb animals whom he had saved, Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills, Which were his living being, even more Than his own blood--what could they less? had laid Strong hold on his affections, were to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love, The pleasure which there is in life itself.

His days had not been passed in singleness. His helpmate was a comely matron, old-- Though younger than himself full twenty years. She was a woman of a stirring life, Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had Of antique form, this large for spinning wool, That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest, It was because the other was at work. The pair had but one inmate in their house, An only child, who had been born to them When Michael, telling o'er his years, began To deem that he was old--in shepherd's phrase, With one foot in the grave. This only son, With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, The one of an inestimable worth, Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the vale For endless industry. When day was gone, And from their occupations out of doors The son and father were come home, even then, Their labour did not cease; unless when all Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there, Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes, And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal Was ended, Luke And his old father both betook themselves To such convenient work as might employ Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card wool For the housewife's spindle, or repair Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe, Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge That in our ancient uncouth country style Did with a huge projection overbrow Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grew dim the housewife hung a lamp; An aged utensil, which had performed Service beyond all others of its kind. Early at evening did it burn and late, Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, Which going by from year to year had found And left the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, Living a life of eager industry. And now when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, There by the light of this old lamp they sat, Father and son, while late into the night The housewife plied her own peculiar work. Making the cottage through the silent hours Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. This light was famous in its neighbourhood, And was a public symbol of the life The thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Their cottage on a plot of rising ground Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the house itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

And when by heaven's good grace the boy grew up A healthy lad, and carried in his cheek Two steady roses that were five years old, Then Michael from a winter coppice cut With his own hands a sapling, which he hooped With iron, making it throughout in all Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the boy; wherewith equipp'd He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; And, to his office prematurely called, There stood the urchin, as you will divine, Something between a hinderance and a help; And for this cause not always, I believe, Receiving from his father hire of praise; Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform.

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights, Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, He with his father daily went, and they Were as companions, why should I relate That objects which the shepherd loved before Were dearer now? that from the boy there came Feelings and emanations--things which were Light to the sun and music to the wind; And that the old man's heart seemed born again.

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up: And now when he had reached his eighteenth year, He was his comfort and his daily hope.

With daylight Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the boy; To which requests were added, that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The housewife answered, talking much of things Which if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

The shepherd ended here, and Luke stooped down, And, as his father had requested, laid The first stone of the sheepfold. At the sight The old man's grief broke from him, to his heart He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept; And to the house together they returned. Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell; with morrow's dawn the boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The public way, he put on a bold face; And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing; and the boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, Which, as the housewife phrased it, were, throughout, "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on, and once again The shepherd went about his daily work With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and at length He in the dissolute city gave himself To evil courses; ignominy and shame Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would overset the brain, or break the heart. I have conversed with more than one who well Remember the old man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up upon the sun, And listened to the wind; and, as before, Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, And for the land, his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the fold of which His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet, The pity which was then in every heart For the old man: and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog, Then old, beside him lying at his feet. The length of full seven years from time to time He at the building of this sheepfold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel Survive her husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The cottage, which was named the Evening Star, Is gone; the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood; yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

Clipping is the word used in the North of England for shearing.

THE INSCRIBED ROCKS OF WINDERMERE.

Our boatman told us, that at a short distance on the eastern side of Windermere lake, were some inscriptions on the rocks, which were the greatest curiosities of the place. The guide-book having made no mention of them, we were the more anxious to see what they were, and were rowed ashore accordingly, at a point not far from Lowood Inn. Here we found every smooth surface afforded by the rocks--every slab on the stratified formation--covered with inscriptions, engraved with much toil, in letters varying from six to twenty or twenty-four inches in height. On one large red stone of at least ten feet square, was engraved "1833. MONEY. LIBERTY. WEALTH. PEACE;"--a catalogue of blessings very much to be desired. On another stone was the simple date "1688:" expressive enough of the engraver's political sentiments. And on another, in larger characters, "A SLAVE LANDING ON THE BRITISH STRAND, BECOMES FREE."

On inquiring of the boatman who it was that had expended so much labour, he pointed out another stone, on which were the words, "John Longmire, Engraver," and informed us that it was a person of that name, who had spent about six years of his prime in this work--labouring here alone, and in all weathers--and both by night and by day. He took great pleasure in the task; and was, as the boatman took pains to impress upon us, rather "dull" at the time. This phrase, as he afterwards explained, implies, in this part of the country, that he was deranged; and I thought, when looking with renewed interest upon these mementos of his ingenuity and perseverance, misapplied though they were, that it was a happy circumstance that an afflicted creature could have found solace under calamity, in a manner so harmless. There was a method in the work, and a sense, too, in the poor man's ideas, which showed that his sympathies were in favour of the moral and intellectual advancement of mankind; and that, amid the last feeble glimmerings of his own reason, he could do honour to those whose intellect had benefited and adorned our age. I could learn no further particulars of him; our friend, the boatman, not being able to say whether he were dead or alive, or whether his "dullness" had ever manifested itself in a more disorderly manner than in these inscriptions.

EDGAR, THE LORD OF ENNERDALE.

A TRADITION OF WOTOBANK, NEAR EGREMONT.

In the neighbourhood of Egremont, there is a romantic hill called Wotobank, with which a traditionary story is connected, and from which its name is said to have originated. The tale relates that "a lord of Egremont, with his lady Edwina and servants, was hunting the wolf; during the chase, the lady was missing, and after a long and painful search, her body was found lying on this romantic acclivity, or bank, mangled by a wolf, which was in the very act of ravenously tearing it to pieces. The sorrow of the husband, in the first transports of his grief, was expressed by the words--"Wo to this bank!"--whence the hill obtained the name of "Wotobank." Mrs. Cowley has adopted this legend for the subject of her beautiful poem "Edwina." After ascending Skiddaw, and casting a glance around:--

"Here--across the tangley dells; There--on the misty distant fells,"

the poetess thus proceeds:--

--"But chiefly, Ennerdale, to thee I turn, And o'er thy healthful vales heart-rended mourn! --For ah! those plains, those vales, those sheltering woods, Nourish'd by Bassenthwaite's contiguous floods, Once witness'd such a sad and heavy deed As makes the aching memory recede."

Then introducing the Lord of Ennerdale, she continues:--

Beneath her husband's roof the matchless fair Graced each delight, and each domestic care. Her plastic needle bade fresh flow'rets grow; And, hung in rich festoons, around her glow; In cooling grots her shellwork seized the eye, With skill arrang'd, to show each melting dye; Her taste the garden everywhere sustain'd, In each parterre her vivid fancy reign'd. Submissive yews in solid walls she form'd, Or bade them rise a castle, yet unstorm'd; In love the eagle hover'd o'er its nest, Or seem'd a couchant lion sunk to rest. Her husband's sports his lov'd Edwina shar'd, For her the hawking party was prepar'd; She roused the wolf--the foaming boar she chased, And Danger's self was in her presence graced.

Thus roll'd two years on flowery wheels along, Midst calm domestic bliss, and sport, and song. O, Edgar! from pernicious Gallia's shore, Hadst thou, immoral youth! return'd no more, Such years tho' lengthen'd time had sweetly run, Down to the faintest beams of life's last sun. But thou returnd'st! and thy voluptuous heart, Which from temptation never knew to start, Seized on Edwina as a lawful prize-- All dead to Honour's voice, and Conscience' secret cries.

Edgar to Ennerdale oft bent his way, His form was courtly, and his manners gay; To Henry he would speak of wars he'd seen, Of tournaments, and gaudes, 'midst peace serene. When for Edwina's ear the tale was fram'd The beauties of bright Gallia's court were nam'd, Their lives, their loves, all past before her view, And many things were feign'd he never knew. At length the prudent fair remark'd the style, And saw beneath his ease distorted guile;-- For virtue in his tales ne'er found a place, Nor maiden vigilance, nor matron grace, But wild and loose his glowing stories ran, And thus betray'd the black designing man. As when, in eastern climes, 'midst hours of play, A sweet boy Sudden beholds the panther's deadly eye, And turns, by impulse strong, his step to fly-- So turn'd Edwina, when she saw, reveal'd, The net th' ensnaring youth had hop'd conceal'd: Whenever he appear'd her air grew cold, And awed to mute despair this baron bold; He by degrees forbore to seek her gate, Who sat enshrin'd within, in Virtue's state. But his wild wishes did not cease to rage, Nor did he strive their fever to assuage-- For sinful love is ever dear to sin, Its victims self-correction ne'er begin; But, hurried on by hell, pursue their road, Nor heed surrounding woes, nor tremble at their God!

The huntsman blew his horn, ere listless day Had from his shoulder thrown his robe of gray, Ere he had shaken from his shining hair The rosy mists which irrigate the air. Lord Henry heard--and from his pillow sprung, And bold responsive notes he cheerily sung; Then, "Wake my love!" the happy husband cried, To her, who, sweetly slumbering at his side, Wish'd still, thus slumbering, to wear the morn, And almost chid the tyrant horn-- Yet quick she rose, and quick her busy maids, Folding her yellow locks in careless braids, Equipp'd her for the field--sweeping she flew, Like a slim arrow from the graceful yew. Her jet-black steed more lively seem'd to bound, When the light burden on his back he found-- The jet-black steed her husband had bestow'd, When first, a huntress, at his side she rode; Long was his streaming main, his eye of fire, Proved his descent from no ignoble sire; He sprung 'midst Araby's far distant plains, Whose sands the bleeding violet never stains. And now the day in all his glories drest, Seem'd at the bugle's call to shake off rest. He pour'd his beams around in ample floods-- Rivers of light descended on the woods; The plains, the valleys drank the radiant shower, Each plant received it, and each gentle flower. The Hunt inspir'd, the ambient aether rent With varied sounds, as their keen course they bent: The dogs, deep-mouth'd, in chorus form'd the cry, And sent their forest greetings to the sky; The horn's full tone swell'd each pervading note, And harmony and joy around the country float.

At length a boar, thro' a dark coppice side, Amidst the rustling bushes seem'd to glide; Cautious he moved, like a fell thief of night, Strung by his fears to unintended flight. Close to the earth he softly crept along, And shrubs, and underwood around him throng; But ah! in vain he creeps, the air so thin, Catches th' effluvia from his reeking skin, The titillations to the hounds' keen nostrils fly, Who instantly the brown recesses try. When turn'd before them into open view, Quick transports from each bosom flew; The huntsman's law the churning savage found, They suffer'd his escape twelve roods of ground, Ere loose was let the eager mad'ning pack, To follow in the bristly monster's track; At length in close pursuit they pour along, Urged or retarded by their Leader's thong. O'er hills, through brakes, he led them many an hour, Straining each nerve--exhausting ev'ry power: Now hears the dogs' faint mouthings far behind, Then scents them as around a beck they wind-- With dread and joy alternately is fill'd Now high with hope, and now with terror chill'd; Then in despair he turns to meet the foe, And rage and madness in his eyeballs glow-- When Henry, darting on before the rest, Fix'd the bright lance within his heaving breast, His struggling breast convulsive motions strain, His spouting veins the foaming coursers stain: The death-notes issue from the brazen horn, And from th' enormous trunk the head is torn. Straight with the tusk-arm'd head upon his spear, Lord Henry turn'd to Her--for ever dear! To lay the bleeding trophy at her feet, And make his triumph more sincerely sweet-- But horror! no Edwina could be seen, Nor on the hill's soft slope, or pasture green; Not shelter'd, near the torrent's fall she lay, Nor on the forest's edge, escaped the day, Nor was she on the plain--the valleys too, Gave no Edwina to the aching view. Wonder and dread compress her husband's heart, O'er the surrounding scene his eye-beams dart; He moves--stands still--terror lifts up his hair, He seems the pale-cheek'd spectre of despair. And now was heard her steed's sonorous neigh, Whose voice the rocks' firm echoes would obey; Bounding, he comes towards them from the plain, But his sweet mistress held no guiding rein-- The reins float loosely, as he cleft the air, No mistress sweet, with guiding hand, was there! From all but Henry burst terrific cries, Silent his dread--and quite suppress'd his sighs. His manly features sink, his eyelids close, And all his lineaments express his woes. Speech! O, how weak, when mighty sorrows spring, When fears excessive to the bosom cling! Words may to lighter troubles give a show, But find no place where griefs transcendent grow. At length they each a different way diverge, Some to the mountain's haughty brow emerge, Others pursue the plain--the wood--the dell, Appointing where to meet, their fortune dear, to tell.

And now, O Lady! Empress of the day, My pensive pen pursues thee on thy way! Amidst the heat and fury of the chace, When the fleet horsemen scarce the eye could trace. A road succinct Edwina meant to take, And push'd her steed across an ancient brake; But in the thicket tangled and dismayed, And of the thorny solitude afraid, Again she turn'd her horse--ah! turn'd in vain, She miss'd the op'ning to the neighb'ring plain. At length dismounting, tremblingly she strove, To force a path, through briars thickly wove; The horse releas'd, straight vanish'd from her eye, And o'er opposing brambles seem'd to fly-- The distant hounds his prick'd-up ears invade, And quick he skims o'er ev'ry glen and glade. His mistress, thus forsook, with prickles torn, And weeping oft with pain, and all forlorn, At length achiev'd a path, and saw a rill, To which she mov'd, her ruby mouth to fill;-- Her taper'd hand immers'd beneath the stream, Flash'd through the glassy wave with pearly gleam, It bore the living moisture to her lips, And eagerly the panting beauty sips, The shining freshness o'er her brow she threw, And bless'd the current as it sparkling flew; Then on its borders sought a short repose, Whilst round her, doddergrass, and pansies rose. Sleep soon, unbidden, caught her in his snare, And folded in his arms the weary fair, Two aspen trees in one smooth bark were bound, And threw a thin and trembling shadow round, The waters gently tinkled as they fell, And a near sheep sustained a silvery bell, Whilst breezes o'er her temples softly stray'd, And 'midst her floating ringlets, leaping, played, Who would not wish to linger in such rest, Where waters, shades, and sounds, make sleeping blest? But, Powers Sublime! who tread the burning air, And give to sainted charity your care, Where roved ye now?--Where waved your filmy wings, Where struck your harps their million-bearing strings? If on Light's rays, swift shot from pole to pole, Your essences supine you chose to roll, Or the rich glowing tapestry to weave, Which must the sun's retiring orb receive, Yet still you should have left each task undone, Fled from the glowing west--forsook the sun, Rush'd in whole troops, nor left one sylph behind, And all your cares to Ennerdale confined: Clung round the aspens where Edwina slept, And o'er her form your anxious vigils kept-- Whose slumbers long spun out their rosy dreams, And still consoled her 'midst the noontide beams. When a hard grasp which seized her listless hands, Rude, snapt asunder their narcotic bands, She started, and she found,--O! hated sight, Close at her side the am'rous villain knight, Who tried in specious terms his hopes to paint-- Inspir'd by ev'ry fiend, he call'd on every saint!

Surprise, at first, held mute Edwina's tongue, And many changes on his theme he rung, Ere she could pour her chaste, her proud disdain, Or check with cold contempt his odious strain. At length she spoke. So once, Judean Fair! Thou turn'd'st upon the sober, hoary pair Who slunk, with wanton thoughts and aspect grave, To watch thee, rising from the gelid wave. Insulted Virtue thunder'd from thy tongue, And o'er thy eye indignant lightnings hung, Swift came the vollied speech;--grand was thy tone, And Chastity in bright effulgence shone. Around the ivory form dark myrtles grew, To snatch thee from the gazing monster's view; Through their deep foliage came thy pointed words, Thy glance was fire--thy sentences were swords!

Such were Edwina's tones, her look, her air, Striking the young seducer with despair! Yes, young he was, in beauty's fullest prime, Untarnish'd yet, untouch'd by withering time! O'er his red cheek soft dimples playful ran, Whilst grace and sinewy strength proclaimed The man! His charms, his passion, sweet Edwina spurned, And with unfeigned abhorrence, stately turned; Then walk'd with mien composed across the moor, Though tremblings seized her heart, and doubtings sore. But Edgar soon she heard, step quick behind, And then to mad'ning fears her soul resigned. She seemed to borrow from the wind its wings, When from its southern portal first it springs-- Flying, as borne upon the billowy air, Urged by distraction on, and blank despair. Her base pursuer spurr'd by dire intent, Kept closely in the track the fair one went; Nor hurried much, but thought her failing feet Would soon retard a course so wondrous fleet-- He thought aright, and in his felon arms, Pressed Henry's beauteous wife, half wild with dread alarms.

Scarce had he dared to grasp her sinking frame, When with the quickness of devouring flame, A furious wolf from out the bordering wood With eyes all glaring near Edwina stood-- The brindled hair rose stiff upon his chine, Of ghastly, deathful joy, the horrid sign; His clinging sides confessed his famished state, And his deep howl proclaimed a victim's fate. The coward fled!--O! now my pen forbear, Nor with the shrieks of terror rend the air!-- The wolf's fell teeth--but O! I check the song, Nor can the horrid, agonizing chord prolong.

The savage, starting from his bleeding prey, Rush'd to his haunt, and briefly fled away; Approaching steps declared swift danger nigh, And forc'd--too late! the unglutted beast to fly. Those steps were Henry's!--he first reached the spot, For him to reach it, was the dreadful lot! He saw her marble bosom torn--her mangled head; He saw--mysterious fate! Edwina dead! Those eyes were closed, whose rich and beamy light, Would shed a lustre on pale Sorrow's night-- Dumb was that honied mouth, whose graceful speech, Beyond the schoolman's eloquence would reach! The snowy arms which lately clasped her lord, Now streaked with flowing blood--O! thought abhorred! Before his starting eyes, all lifeless hang, And give him more than death's last, rending pang. His cries of agony spread o'er the plain, And reached the distant undulating main; His screams of anguish struck with terror more Than the lank wolf's most desolating roar. Vain his attendants sooth--in vain they pray, In stormy grief he wearied down the day. A furious maniac now he raged around, And tore the bushes from the embracing ground, Then spent, all prone upon the earth he fell, And from his eyes the gushing torrents swell; When sorrow could articulate its grief, When words allowed a transient short relief, "Woe to thee, Bank!" were the first sounds that burst, "And be thy soil with bitter offspring curst! "Woe to thee, Bank, for thou art drunk with gore, "The purest heart of woman ever bore!" "Woe to thee, Bank!" the attendants echoed round, And pitying shepherds caught the grief-fraught sound. Thus, to this hour, through every changing age, Through ev'ry year's still ever-varying stage, The name remains; and Wo-to-Bank is seen, From ev'ry mountain bleak, and valley green-- Dim Skiddaw views it from his monstrous height, And eagles mark it in their dizzy flight; The Bassenthwaite's soft murmurs sorrow round, And rocks of Buttermere protect the ground, Rills of Helvellyn raging in their fall, Seem on Lodore's rough sympathy to call-- From peak to peak they wildly burst away, And form, with rushing tone, a hollow, dirge-like lay. Not rocks, and cataracts and alps alone, Paint out the spot, and make its horrors known. For faithful lads ne'er pass, nor tender maid, But the soft rite of tears is duly paid; Each can the story to the traveller tell, And on the sad disaster, pitying dwell-- Thus Wo-to-Bank, thou'rt known thy swains among, And now thou liv'st within an humble stranger's song!"

LADY EVA AND THE GIANT.

A LEGEND OF YEWDALE.

As you enter the romantic vale of Yewdale, about a quarter of a mile above the saw-mills, by looking over the hedge to your right, you may perceive, near to the verge of the precipitous bank of Yewdale Beck, and a few yards from the roadside, a long narrow mound which seems to be formed of solid stone covered with moss, but which a nearer inspection would show to be composed of several blocks fitted so closely together as to prove the mound to have had an artificial, and not a natural origin. You observe it is somewhere between three and four yards long. That singular accumulation of lichen-clad rock has been known for centuries amongst the natives of Yewdale and the adjacent valleys, by the romance-suggesting designation of Girt Will's Grave. How it came by that name, and how Cauldron Dub and Yewdale Bridge came to be haunted, my task is now to tell.

Some few hundred years ago, the inhabitants of these contiguous dales were startled from their propriety, if they had any, by a report that one of the Troutbeck giants had built himself a hut, and taken up his abode in the lonely dell of the Tarns, above Yewdale Head. Of course you have read the history and exploits of the famous Tom Hickathrift, and remembering that he was raised at Troutbeck, you will not be much surprised when I tell you that it was always famous for a race of extraordinary size and strength; for even in these our own puny days, the biggest man in Westmoreland is to be found in that beautiful vale.

The excitement consequent upon the settlement of one of that gigantic race in this vicinity soon died away, and the object of it, who stood somewhere about nine feet six out of his clogs, if they were in fashion then, and was broad in fair proportion, became known to the neighbours as a capital labourer, ready for any such work as was required in the rude and limited agricultural operations of the period and locality--answered to the cognomen of "Girt Will o' t' Tarns," and, once or twice, did good service as a billman under the Knight of Conistone, when he was called upon to muster his powers to assist in repelling certain roving bands of Scots or Irish, who were wont, now and again, to invade the wealthy plains of low Furness.

The particular Knight who was chief of the Flemings of Conistone, at the period of the giant's location at the Tarns, was far advanced in years, and, in addition to some six or eight gallant and stately sons, had

"One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well."

And Eva le Fleming, called by the country people "the Lady Eva," was famed throughout the broad north for her beauty and gentleness, her high-bred dignity and her humble virtues; but it is not with her that my story has to do. She, like the mother of "the gentle lady married to the Moor," had a maid called Barbara, an especial favourite with her mistress, and, in her own sphere, deemed quite as beautiful. In fact, it was hinted that, when she happened to be in attendance upon her lady on festive or devotional occasions, the eyes of even knights and well-born squires were as often directed to the maid as to the mistress, and seemed to express as much admiration in one direction as the other.

And when mounted on the Lady Eva's own palfrey, bedecked in its gayest trappings, she rode, as she oftentimes did, to visit her parents at Skelwith, old and young were struck with her beauty, and would turn, as she ambled past, to gaze after her, and to wonder at the elegance of her figure, the ease of her deportment, and the all-surpassing loveliness of her features. Her lady, notwithstanding the disparity of their rank, loved her as a sister, and it was whispered amongst her envious fellow-servants, that her mistress's fondness made her assume airs unbecoming her station. True enough it was that she seemed sufficiently haughty and scornful in her reception of the homage paid to her charms by the young men of her own rank, and by many above it. The only one to whom she showed the slightest courtesy on these occasions was wild Dick Hawksley, the Knight's falconer, and he was also the only one who appeared to care no more for her favours than for her frowns.

The Lady Eva, as well befits high-born dames, was somewhat romantic in her tastes, and would often row for hours upon the lake, and wander for miles through the woods, or even upon the mountains, unattended, save by her favourite bower-maiden. And one evening in autumn, after having been confined for two whole days to the hall, by heavy and incessant rain, tired of playing chess with her father, and battledore with her younger brothers, or superintending the needlework of her maids, and tempted by the brilliant moonlight and now unobscured skies, she summoned Barbara, and set out upon a stroll by the lake side.

The pair were sauntering along a path cut through the dense coppice, the lady leaning in condescending affection upon the shoulder of her maiden, and listening to a recital of how, on her return from some of her visits to her parents, she had been waylaid by Great Will of the Tarns, and how on a recent evening he had attempted to seize her rein, and would have stopped her, had she not whipped the palfrey and bounded past him. The lady was expressing her indignation at this insolence, when a gigantic figure sprang upon the pathway, and, snatching up the screaming Barbara with the same ease with which she herself would have lifted an infant, vanished on the instant amongst the thick hazels.

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