'Mong rural beauties I was one,

Among the fields wild flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my beauty passing rare.

"But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,) Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

66

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, (The injured surely may repine !) Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine?

'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,

And, oh! then leave them to decay?

Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?

"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a countess can have woe.

"The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy 's their estate;
To smile for joy than sigh for woe,
To be content than to be great.

"How far less blest am I than them! Daily to pine and waste with care,

Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns or pratings rude.

"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'

"And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

"My spirits flag, my hopes decay,

Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a boding seems to say, 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!""

Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,
In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour; for never more
That hapless countess e'er was seen!

And in that manor now no more
Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids with fearful glance
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,
Nor ever lead the merry dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,
And pensive wept the countess' fall,
As wandering onwards they 've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

William Julius Mickle.

Dale Abbey.

DALE ABBEY.

A SOLITARY arch in the middle of an open meadow, and a small oratory more ancient than the monastery itself, - now the chapel of ease for the hamlet, -are alone conspicuous of all the magnificent structures which once occupied this ground. The site is about five miles northeast from Derby.

I.

THE
HE glory hath departed from thee, Dale!
Thy gorgeous pageant of monastic pride,
A power that once the power of kings defied,
Which truth and reason might in vain assail,
In mock humility usurped this vale,

And lorded o'er the region far and wide;
Darkness to light, evil to good allied,

Had wrought a charm, which made all hearts to quail.

What gave that power dominion on this ground,
Age after age? - the Word of God was bound!
At length the mighty captive burst from thrall,
O'erturned the spiritual bastile in its march,
And left of ancient grandeur this sole arch,

Whose stones cry out, “Thus Babylon herself shall fall."

II.

More beautiful in ruin than in prime,

Methinks this frail yet firm memorial stands,

The work of heads laid low, and buried hands:

Now slowly mouldering to the touch of time,
It looks abroad, unconsciously sublime,

Where sky above and earth beneath expands:
And yet a nobler relic still demands

The grateful homage of a passing rhyme.

Beneath the cliff yon humble roof behold!
Poor as our Saviour's birthplace; yet a fold,

Where the good shepherd, in this quiet vale,
Gathers his flock, and feeds them, as of old,
With bread from heaven: I change my note;
all hail!

The glory of the Lord is risen upon thee, Dale!

James Montgomery.

Darley Dale.

A TRADITION OF OKER HILL IN DARLEY DALE, DERBYSHIRE.

T

IS said that to the brow of yon fair hill

Two brothers clomb, and, turning face from face,

Nor one look more exchanging, grief to still

Or feed, each planted on that lofty place
A chosen tree; then, eager to fulfil

Their courses, like two new-born rivers, they
In opposite directions urged their way

Down from the far-seen mount. No blast might kill
Or blight that fond memorial; — the trees grew,
And now entwine their arms; but ne'er again