Lays and Legends of the English Lake Country. White John White

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      Snug under that cliff, whence over the Mere,

      When summer is merry and skies are clear,

      In holiday times hearts light and gay

      Look over the hills and far away—

      At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm beside

      The bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide,

      A rollicking band of jovial souls

      With tinkling cans and full brown bowls.

      Without, the sycamores' branches rode

      The storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode;

      Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloa

      The ferryman smiled—"The boat must go."

      His comrades followed out into the dark,

      As the young man strode to the tumbling bark;

      And, wishing him luck in the perilous storm,

      With a shudder went back to the fireside warm.

      An hour is gone! against wind and wave

      Well struggled and strove that heart so brave.

      Another! they crowd to the whistling door,

      To welcome the guide and his freight to shore.

      But pallid, and stunn'd, aghast, alone,

      He stood in the boat, and speech had none:

      His lips were locked, and his eyes astare,

      And blanched with terror his manly hair.

      What thing he had seen, what utterance heard,

      What horror that night his senses stirr'd,

      Was frozen within him, and choked his breath,

      And laid him, ere morning, cold in death.

      But what that night of horror revealed,

      And what that night of horror concealed

      Of spirits and powers in storms that roam,

      Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.

      Still, under the cliff—whence over the Mere,

      When summer was merry and skies were clear,

      In holiday times hearts light and gay

      Looked over the hills and far away—

      When the rough winds blew amid rain and cold,

      The Ferry-house gathered its hearts of old,

      Who sat at the hearth and o'er the brown ale,

      Oft talked of that night and its dismal tale.

      And often the Crier was heard to wake

      The night's foul echoes across the lake;

      But never again would a hand unmoor

      The boat, to venture by night from shore:

      Till they sought the good monk of St. Mary's Holm,

      With relics of saints and beads from Rome,

      To row to the Nab on Hallowmas night,

      And bury the Crier by morning's light.

      With Aves muttered, and spells unknown,

      The monk rows over the Mere alone;

      Like a feather his bark floats light and fast;

      When the Crier's loud hail sweeps down the blast.

      Speed on, bold heart, with gifts of grace!

      He is nearing the wild fiend-blighted place.

      Now heed thee, foul spirit! the priest has power

      To bind thee on earth till the morning hour.

      He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleam

      From a marsh-light sheds on the ground its beam.

      There's a stir in the grass; and there's ONE on a knoll,

      Unearthly and horrid to sight and soul.

      That horrible cry rings through the dark,

      As the monk steps out of the grounding bark;

      And he charms a circle around the knoll,

      Wherein he must sit till the mass bell toll.

      Then over the lake, with the fiend in tow,

      To the quarry beyond the monk will go,

      And bury the Crier with book and bell,

      While the birds of morning sing him farewell.

      The morn awoke. As the breezy smile

      Of dawn played over St. Mary's Isle,

      The tinkling sound of the mass-bell rose,

      And startled the valleys from brief repose.

      Then, like a speck from afar descried,

      The monk row'd out on the waters wide—

      From the Nab row'd out, with the fiend in his wake,

      To lay him in quiet, across the lake.

      And fear-struck men, and women that bore

      Their babes, beheld from height and shore,

      How he reached the wood that hid the dell,

      Where he laid the Crier with book and bell.

      "For the ivy green" the spell was told;

      "For the ivy green" his knell was knoll'd;

      That as long as by wall and greenwood tree

      The ivy flourished, his rest might be.

      So did the good monk; and thus was laid

      The Crier in ground by greenwood shade.

      In the quarry of Claife the wretched ghost

      To human ear for ever was lost.

      And country folk in peace again

      Went forth by night through field and lane,

      Nor dreaded to hear that terrible note

      Cry over the water, and hail the boat.

      And still on that cliff, high over the Mere,

      When summer is merry, and skies are clear,

      In holiday times hearts light and gay

      Look over the hills and far away.

      But what that night of horror revealed,

      And what that night and morrow concealed,

      Of spirits so wicked and given to roam,

      Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm.

      Peace be with him, peaceful soul!

      Long his bell has ceased to toll.

      Green the Isle that folds his breast;

      Clear the Lake that lull'd his rest.

      Though the many ages gone

      Long have left his place unknown;

      Yet where once he kneel'd and pray'd,

      By his altar long decay'd,

      Stranger to this Island led!

      Humbly speak and softly tread;

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