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Hark! proudly hark! with that true tone
Hearts of old Cornwall, fare ye well!
Robert Stephen Hawker.
Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is á short, and for the most part a steep, narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall.
A never, never ending song,
The magpie chatters with delight;
Or through the glittering vapors dart
Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
On pipes of sycamore they play
Along the river's stony marge
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race."
Away the shepherds flew;
They leapt, they ran; and when they came
Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries.
"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross, Come on, and tread where I shall tread." The other took him at his word,
And followed as he led.
It was a spot which you may see
Into the chasm a mighty block
Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:
The gulf is deep below,
And in a basin black and small
With staff in hand across the cleft
The challenger pursued his march;
When list! he hears a piteous moan.
His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,
He totters, pallid as a ghost,
And, looking down, espies
A lamb, that in the pool is pent
The lamb had slipped into the stream,
His dam had seen him when he fell,
The lamb, still swimming round and round,
When he had learnt what thing it was
He drew it from the troubled pool,
An unexpected sight!
Into their arms the lamb they took,
Whose life and limbs the flood had spared;
Then up the steep ascent they hied,
And placed him at his mother's side;
WITH many a weary step at length I gain
Thy summit, Lansdown; and the cool breeze plays Gratefully round my brow, as hence I gaze Back on the fair expanse of yonder plain. 'T was a long way, and tedious; to the eye Though fair the extended vale, and fair to view The autumnal leaves of many a faded hue, That eddy in the wild gust moaning by. Even so it fared with life: in discontent, Restless through fortune's mingled scenes I went, Yet wept to think they would return no more. But cease, fond heart! in such sad thoughts to roam; For surely thou erelong shalt reach thy home, And pleasant is the way that lies before.
A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCHYARD.