Came studious Taste; and many a pensive stranger William Wordsworth. Croyland. KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland That, whenever they sat at their revels, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to the saints and martyrs And as soon as the horn was empty And the reader droned from the pulpit, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore; For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Culbone (Culborne). CULBONE, OR KITNORE, SOMERSET. CULBONE is a small village, embowered in lofty wooded hills, on the coast between Porlock and Linton. For three months in winter its inhabitants are unvisited by the sun. ALF-WAY upon the cliff I musing stood HA O'er thy sea-fronting hollow, while the smoke Yet in this quaint and sportive-seeming dell Nor count the troths in that low chancel given, Henry Alford. THE Cumnor Hall. CUMNOR HALL. HE dews of summer night did fall; Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now naught was heard beneath the skies, That issued from that lonely pile. 'Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love Immured in shameful privity? "No more thou com'st with lover's speed Thy once belovéd bride to see; But be she alive or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. "Not so the usage I received "I rose up with the cheerful morn, No lark more blithe, no flower more gay; And like the bird that haunts the thorn, "If that my beauty is but small, Among court ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? "And when you first to me made suit, How fair I was! you oft would say; And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, Then left the blossom to decay. "Yes! now neglected and despised, The rose is pale, the lily 's dead; But he that once their charms so prized Is sure the cause those charms are fled. "For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love 's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay : What floweret can endure the storm? "At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, “Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds Where roses and where lilies vie, To seek a primrose, whose pale shades Must sicken when those gauds are by? |