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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 Stag! 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 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 stretched 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

steered,

A cup of stone received the living well; Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared,

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 led his wondering Paramour; And with the dancers and the minstrel 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 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,

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 hath been."

I looked upon the hill both far and near,
More doleful place did never eye survey;
It seemed as if the spring-time came not

here,

And Nature here were willing to decay.

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