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 is 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,

The weary win a long repose,
The bruised spirit finds, at last,
A balm for all its woes,

And lowly grief and lordly pride

Lay down like brothers side by side!

The breath of slander cannot come

To break the calm that lingers there;

There is no dreaming in the tomb,

Nor waking to despair;

Unkindness cannot wound us more,

And all earth's bitterness is o'er.

There the maiden waits till her lover come

They never more shall part;

And the stricken deer has gained her home,

With the arrow in her heart;

And passion's pulse lies hush'd and still,
Beyond the reach of the temper's skill.

The mother-she is gone to sleep,
With her babe upon her breast,-
She has no weary watch to keep
Over her infant's rest;

His slumbers on her bosom fair

Shall never more be broken-there!"

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.

STANZAS,

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.
Lo, on yon far-stretch'd height, the young and fair,
The rich and poor in goodly order set.

It is a mighty gathering! and the sun
Methinks looks down more lovingly to see
That great assemblage, many blent as one,
In sweet enjoyment of festivity.

A fresher breeze sweeps through our pleasant vale,
And deeper glows the azure of the sky;

Roses return to cheeks but lately pale,

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.

Behold where, far beneath, the devious Yore
Urges his gather'd waters to the main;
And as the breeze subsides, his cataract's roar
Rises and falls like dreamy music's strain

256

Ch pleasant spot! 'twas in a happy hour
That first this celebration was devis d:
Here Lay no elonds of work-day sorrow lour-
Here that joy by truthful spirits priz'd

Masian Idance beneath the reenwood tree,
As in Arm lian times by poets sunt:
A Llaneless feast, from all excesses free,
Sulung alike the aged an 1 the young.

Tusands of smiling faces gladly met—

Kin-folk, and frien is, and lovers. Who shall say What young Larts shall this meeting ne er forget, But bless though future years the golden day?

So flomish 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 tale—

Still, 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
Or lengthen out a closing song,
Unless to bid the gentles speed,

Who long have listed to my rede?
SIR W. SCOTT.

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,

LL