eir happiness.

Till o'er this rock of refuge, deem'd secure,
--This palace of the poor,
Ascetic luxury, wealth too frankly shown,--
The royal robber swept
His lustful eye, and seized the prey his own.

--Ah, calm of Nature! Now thou hold'st again
Thy sweet and silent reign!
And, as our feverish years their orbit roll,
This pure and cloister'd peace
In its old healing virtue bathes the soul.

1539 is the year when the greater monasteries, amongst which Fountains in
Yorkshire held a prominent place, were confiscated and ruined by Henry
VIII.

_The tiny creeper_; Certhia Familiaris; the smallest of our birds after
the wren. It belongs to a class nearly related to the woodpecker.

_White-robed_; The colour of the Cistercian order, to which Fountains
belonged.

SIR HUGH WILLOUGHBY

1553-4

Two ships upon the steel-blue Arctic seas
When day was long and night itself was day,
Forged heavily before the South West breeze
As to the steadfast star they curved their way;
Two specks of man, two only signs of life,
Where with all breathing things white Death keeps endless strife.

The Northern Cape is sunk: and to the crew
This zone of sea, with ice-floes wedged and rough,
Domed by its own pure height of tender blue,
Seems like a world from the great world cut off:
While, round the horizon clasp'd, a ring of white,
Snow-blink from snows unseen, walls them with angry light.

Now that long day compact of many days
Breaks up and wanes; and equal night beholds
Their hapless driftage past uncharted bays,
And in her chilling, killing arms enfolds:
While the near stars a thousand arrowy darts
Bend from their diamond eyes, as the low sun departs.

Or the weird Northern Dawn in idle play
Mocks their sad souls, now trickling down the sky
In many-quivering lines of golden spray,
Then blazing out, an Iris-arch on high,
With fiery lances fill'd and feathery bars,
And sheeny veils that hide or half-reveal the stars.

A silent spectacle! Yet sounds, 'tis said,
On their forlornness broke; a hissing cry
Of mockery and wild laugh, as, overhead,
Those blight fantastic squadrons flaunted by:--
And that false dawn, long nickering, died away,
And the Sun came not forth, and Heaven withheld the day.

O King Hyperion, o'er the Delphic dale
Reigning meanwhile in glory, Ocean know
Thine absence, and outstretch'd an icy veil,