THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.
May no wolfe howle; no screech owle stir
A wing about thy sepulchre!
No boysterous winds or stormes come hither,
To starve or wither
Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,
Love kept it ever flourishing.
HERRICK.
IN the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties
of England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that lead
through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one
afternoon at a village the situation of which was beautifully
rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity about
its inhabitants not to be found in the villages which lie on the
great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, and,
having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the
neighboring scenery.
My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to
the church, which stood at a little distance from the village.
Indeed, it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being
completely overrun with ivy so that only here and there a jutting
buttress, an angle of gray wall, or a fantastically carved
ornament peered through the verdant covering.
Pages:
469
470
471
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493