d asks, "Can it have
originated thence?" He further observes:--"this absurd custom is not
extinct even at this day: I have formerly frequently observed shreds or
bits of rag upon the bushes that overhang a well in the road to Benton,
a village in the vicinity of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which, from that
circumstance, is now or was very lately called _The Rag Well_. This
name is undoubtedly of long standing: probably it has been visited for
some disease or other, and these rag-offerings are the relics of the
then prevailing popular superstition."--_Brand's Popular Antiquities_,
vol. ii. p. 270.]

"From hill, from dale, each charm is fled;
Groves, flocks, and fountains, please no more."

No joy, nor hope, no pleasure, nor its dream,
Now cheers my heart. The current of my life
Seems settled to a dull, unruffled lake,
Deep sunk 'midst gloomy rocks and barren hills;
Which tempests only stir and clouds obscure;
Unbrightened by the cheerful beam of day,
Unbreathed on by the gentle western breeze,
Which sweeps o'er pleasant meads and through the woods,
Stirring the leaves which seem to dance with joy.
No more the beauteous landscape in its pride
Of summer loveliness--when every tree
Is crowned with foliage, and each blooming flower
Speaks by its breath its presence though unseen--
For me has charms; although in early days,
Ere care and grief had dulled the sense of joy,
No eye more raptured gazed upon the scene
Of woody dell, green slope, or heath-clad hill;
Nor ear with more delight drank in the strains
Warbled by cheerful birds from every grove,
Or thrilled by larks up-springing to the sky.

From the hill side--where oft in tender youth
I strayed, when hope, the sunshine of the mind,
Lent to each lovely scene, a double charm
And tinged all objects with its golden hues--
There gushed a spring, whose waters found their way
Into a basin of rude stone below.
A thorn, the largest of its kind, still green
And flourishing, though old, the well o'erhung;
Receiving friendly nurture at its roots
From what its branches shaded; and around
The love-lorn primrose and wild violet grew,
With the faint bubbling of that limpid fount.

Here oft the shepherd came at noon-tide heat
And sat him down upon the bank of turf
Beneath the thorn, to eat his humble meal
And drink the crystal from that cooling spring.
Here oft at evening, in that placid hou