Hark! proudly hark! with that true tone
They welcomed him to land and throne;
So e'er they die they fain would ring
The jubilee of England's king.

Hearts of old Cornwall, fare ye well!
Fast fade such scenes from field and dell;
How wilt thou lack, my own dear land,
Those trusty arms, that faithful band!

Robert Stephen Hawker.

Langdale.

DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.

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.

THE
HE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play

A never, never ending song,
To welcome in the May.

The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest,
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food,

Or through the glittering vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind, or done.

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.

A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

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
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
Seeing that he should lose the prize,

Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries.
James stopped with no good-will:
Said Walter then, exulting, "Here
You'll find a task for half a year.

"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
If ever you to Langdale go;

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
Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand across the cleft

The challenger pursued his march;
And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained
The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan.
Again! his heart within him dies;

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
Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had slipped into the stream,
And safe without a bruise or wound
The cataract had borne him down
Into the gulf profound.

His dam had seen him when he fell,
She saw him down the torrent borne;
And, while with all a mother's love
She from the lofty rocks above
Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round,
Made answer in that plaintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was
That sent this rueful cry, I ween
The boy recovered heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferred their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid:
A poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages' books,
By chance had hither strayed;
And there the helpless lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompassed round.

He drew it from the troubled pool,
And brought it forth into the light;
The shepherds met him with his charge,

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;
And gently did the bard
Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid,
And bade them better mind their trade.

William Wordsworth.

Lansdown.

LANSDOWN HILL.

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.

Robert Southey.

Lechlade.

A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCHYARD.

LECHLADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.

THE
HE wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapor that obscured the sunset's ray;
And pallid Evening twines its beaming hair