e
whole dingle is now in a blaze.'

'"The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve, and discovereth the
thick bushes." As you say, there is something awful in thunder.'

'There are all kinds of noises above us,' said Belle; 'surely I heard the
crashing of a tree?'

'"The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedar trees,"' said I, 'but what you
hear is caused by a convulsion of the air; during a thunder-storm there
are occasionally all kinds of aerial noises. Ab Gwilym, who, next to
King David, has best described a thunderstorm, speaks of these aerial
noises in the following manner:--

'Astonied now I stand at strains,
As of ten thousand clanking chains;
And once, methought that, overthrown,
The welkin's oaks came whelming down;
Upon my head up starts my hair:
Why hunt abroad the hounds of air?
What cursed hag is screeching high,
Whilst crash goes all her crockery?'

You would hardly believe, Belle, that though I offered at least ten
thousand lines nearly as good as those to the booksellers in London, the
simpletons were so blind to their interest, as to refuse purchasing
them!'

'I don't wonder at it,' said Belle, 'especially if such dreadful
expressions frequently occur as that towards the end;--surely that was
the crash of a tree?'

'Ah!' said I, 'there falls the cedar tree--I mean the sallow; one of the
tall trees on the outside of the dingle has been snapped short.'

'What a pity,' said Belle, 'that the fine old oak, which you saw the
peasants cutting up, gave way the other night, when scarcely a breath of
air was stirring; how much better to have fallen in a storm like this,
the fiercest I remember.'

'I don't think so,' said I; 'after braving a thousand tempests, it was
meeter for it to fall of itself than to be vanquished at last. But to
return to Ab Gwilym's poetry: he was above culling dainty words, and
spoke boldly his mind on all subjects. Enraged with the thunder for
parting him and Morfydd, he says, at the conclusion of his ode,

'My curse, O Thunder, cling to thee,
For parting my dear pearl and me!'

'You and I shall part, that is, I shall go to my tent, if you persist in
repeating from him. The man must have been a savage. A poor wood-pigeon
has fallen dead.'

'Yes,' said I, 'there he lies, just outside the tent; often have I
listened to his note when alone in this wilderness. So you do not like
Ab Gwilym; what say you to old Gothe?--

'Mist shroud