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down to the chapel on the morning of the Sabbath-day, at the usual hour of tinkling the bell, and, elevating himself sufficiently, so as to enable him to thrust his head through the hole where the bell had hung, vociferated lustily, 'bol-lol bol-lol bol-lol.'
It may naturally be presumed that this chapel will have a burial ground attached to it, which certainly the case; but it would seem that neither the heads of the church in the district in which it is situated, nor any of the late incumbents, nor the descendants of those who sleep therein, reverence much the memory of the dead; for what has once been an enclosed and consecrated burial ground, large but somewhat irregular in shape, has, for a great number of years, become part and parcel of the adjoining common; and, notwithstanding that the original fence has been a substantial stone wall, through utter neglect during a long succession of years, it has nearly disappeared.”
Yet this neglect but little affects the sleepers who have reached
“ That quiet land where, peril past,
There the maiden waits till her lover come-
The mother-she is gone to sleep,
T. K. HERVEY. Reader! I have endeavoured, faintly and briefly indeed, but faithfully as I could withal, to show you WENSLEYDALE in THE PRESENT DAY.
Occasioned by the fifth Leyburn Shawl Festival, attended by nearly
Three Thousand persons, June 25th, 1845.
There is a sound of music on the air
A voice of quiet glee: the Dales have met.
The rich and poor in goodly order set.
Methinks looks down more lovingly to see
In sweet enjoyment of festivity.
And deeper glows the azure of the sky;
And mirth is laughing in each maiden's eye. They come from hill and lowland, town and cot,
As in great gatherings of the olden time The Dales assembled : only war forgot,
They meet for peace, instead of strife and crime. A brighter scene could seldom Minstrel greet,
Those groups of damsels fair, and stalwart men; The Shawl, with green woods waving at his feet,
The landscape wide-mountain, and plain, and glen. Scenes of historic fame : lo, where aloft
Middleham's grey towers arise—a kingly pile; And Bolton-breathe it in a whisper soft
Who shall name Mary's prison house and smile? E'en mid our festival the passing thought
May well a mournful recollection wake, To every heart by hoar tradition brought
Forgive one tear for that lone captive's sake.
Urges his gather'd waters to the main;
Rises and falls like dreamy music's strain
Oh pleasant spot! 'twas in a happy hour
That first this celebration was devis'd;
Here is that joy by truthful spirits priz'd.
As in Arcadian times by poets sung;
Suiting alike the aged and the young.
Kinsfolk, and friends, and lovers. Who shall say What young hearts shall this meeting ne'er forget,
But bless through future years the golden day?
So flourish long such Festival ; and when
Summer comes lightly to fair Wensleydale, When linnets warble wild in shaw and glen,
And gentle cushats tell love's plaintive taleStill, e'en as now, upon the lofty height
Be gather'd from afar the joyous crowdSmile rosy lips, and kind eyes beam as bright
As woe could never wound, or sorrow cloud!
Why then a final note prolong
Quitting a congenial theme is to a writer not unlike bidding adieu to the companion of some delightful journey, whom, according to the probabilities of life, it will never be our lot to meet again; hence grows a sadness, although we are certain that the past will supply us with pleasant reminiscences for the future. And now, Reader, the moment has arrived when I must say “farewell!” after a very short, albeit I trust, not wholly unsatisfactory travel.
As I mentioned in my Prologue, this view of the Three Days of Wensleydale has been both cursory and imperfect; whatever pleasure it may have afforded some,