The friar he quaffed, but no longer he laughed, He changed from red to pale:

"Oh, hapless elf! 'tis the fiend himself,
To whom thou hast made thy sale."

The friar he quaffed, he took a deep draught;
He crossed himself amain;

"Oh, slave of pelf, 'tis the devil himself,
To whom thou hast sold thy grain!

"And, sure as the day, he'll fetch thee away,
With the corn which thou hast sold,
If thou let him pay o'er one tester more
Than thy settled price in gold."

The farmer gave vent to a loud lament,
The wife to a long outcry;

Their relish for pig and ale was flown;
The friar alone picked every bone,
And drained the flagon dry.

The friar was gone: the morning dawn
Appeared, and the stranger's wain
Came to the hour, with six-horse power,
To fetch the purchased grain.

The horses were black: on their dewy track,
Light steam from the ground up-curled ;
Long wreaths of smoke from their nostrils broke,
And their tails like torches whirled!

More dark and grim, in face and limb,
Seemed the stranger than before,

As his empty wain, with steeds thrice twain,
Drew up to the farmer's door.

On the stranger's face was a sly grimace,

As he seized the sacks of grain,

And, one by one, till left were none,
He tossed them on the wain.

And slyly he leered, as his hand upreared
A purse of costly mould,

Where bright and fresh, through a silver mesh,

Shone forth the glistering gold.

The farmer held out his right hand stout,
And drew it back with dread;

For in fancy he heard each warning word
The supping friar had said.

His eye was set on the silver net;

His thoughts were in fearful strife;
When, sudden as fate, the glittering bait
Was snatched by his loving wife.

And, swift as thought, the stranger caught
The farmer his waist around,

And at once the twain, and the loaded wain,
Sank through the rifted ground.

The gable-end wall of Manor Hall
Fell in ruins on the place;
That stone-heap old the tale has told
To each succeeding race.

The wife gave a cry that rent the sky,

At her goodman's downward flight;

But she held the purse fast, and a glance she cast
To see that all was right.

"Twas the fiend's full pay for her goodman gray,
And the gold was good and true;

Which made her declare that "his dealings were fair,
To give the devil his due."

She wore the black pall for Farmer Wall,
From her fond embraces riven:

But she won the vows of a younger spouse,
With the gold which the fiend had given.

Now, farmers beware, what oaths you swear,
When you cannot sell your corn;
Lest to bid and buy, a stranger be nigh,
With hidden tail and horn.

And with good heed, the moral a-read,
Which is of this tale the pith,

If your corn you sell to the fiend of hell,
You may sell yourself therewith.

And if by mishap, you fall in the trap,—
Would you bring the fiend to shame,
Lest the tempting prize should dazzle her eyes,
Lock up your frugal dame.

NEWARK ABBEY,

On the Wey, near Chertsey, Surrey. [Written in 1842 with a reminiscence of August, 1807; Published in Fraser in 1860.]

I

GAZE where August's sunbeam falls
Along these gray and lonely walls,
Till in its light absorbed appears
The lapse of five-and-thirty years.
If change there be, I trace it not
In all this consecrated spot:
No new imprint of Ruin's march
On roofless wall and frameless arch:
The woods, the hills, the fields, the stream,
Are basking in the selfsame beam :
The fall, that turns the unseen mill,
As then it murmured, murmurs still.
It seems as if in one were cast
The present and the imaged past;
Spanning, as with a bridge sublime,
That fearful lapse of human time;
That gulf, unfathomably spread
Between the living and the dead.

For all too well my spirit feels
The only change this scene reveals.
The sunbeams play, the breezes stir,
Unseen, unfelt, unheard by her,
Who, on that long-past August day,
Beheld with me these ruins gray.
Whatever span the fates allow,
Ere I shall be as she is now,
Still, in my bosom's inmost cell,
Shall that deep-treasured memory dwell;

Ήμεθα μεν πρύταν ήμας, ἐς τής τον κατανα

Ωρῃ περ θερίνη, ότι μαίνετε Στέρους αυτής

Πρὸς Μέλανος Τείχους. Τα μέσας αυταίς, που έχεις
Δώμασιν Αλσοςίλες, τραπέζας εν στολίσαντις
Δαινύμενοι λώστους απος έχουν και ποταμείο,

Πέρκας τε, τρίγλας τε, και εγγένειας σακαράς στο