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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


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


I will come hither with

my Paramour ;

And with the dancers and the minstrel's


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


-Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;

And far and wide the fame thereof did


Ere thrice the moon into her port had


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


And his bones lie in his paternal vale.-
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.


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


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


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


And Nature here were willing to decay.

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