et moon, the messenger vrom my lost day,
Thy looks be always dear to me.

THE LEAeDY'S TOWER.

An' then we went along the gleaedes
O' zunny turf, in quiv'ren sheaedes,
A-winden off, vrom hand to hand,
Along a path o' yollow zand,
An' clomb a stickle slope, an' vound
An open patch o' lofty ground,
Up where a steaetely tow'r did spring,
So high as highest larks do zing.

"Oh! Meaester Collins," then I zaid,
A-looken up wi' back-flung head;
Vor who but he, so mild o' feaece,
Should teaeke me there to zee the pleaece.
"What is it then theaese tower do meaen,
A-built so feaeir, an' kept so cleaen?"
"Ah! me," he zaid, wi' thoughtvul feaece,
"'Twer grief that zet theaese tower in pleaece.
The squier's e'thly life's a-blest
Wi' gifts that mwost do teaeke vor best;
The lofty-pinion'd rufs do rise
To screen his head vrom stormy skies;
His land's a-spreaden roun' his hall,
An' hands do leaebor at his call;
The while the ho'se do fling, wi' pride,
His lofty head where he do guide;
But still his e'thly jay's a-vled,
His woone true friend, his wife, is dead.
Zoo now her happy soul's a-gone,
An' he in grief's a-ling'ren on,
Do do his heart zome good to show
His love to flesh an' blood below.
An' zoo he rear'd, wi' smitten soul,
Theaese Leaedy's Tower upon the knowl.
An' there you'll zee the tow'r do spring
Twice ten veet up, as roun's a ring,
Wi' pillars under mwolded eaeves,
Above their heads a-carv'd wi' leaves;
An' have to peaece, a-walken round
His voot, a hunderd veet o' ground.
An' there, above his upper wall,
A rounded tow'r do spring so tall
'S a springen arrow shot upright,
A hunderd giddy veet in height.
An' if you'd like to strain your knees
A-climen up above the trees,
To zee, wi' slowly wheelen feaece,
The vur-sky'd land about the pleaece,
You'll have a flight o' steps to wear
Vor forty veet, up steaeir by steaeir,
That roun' the risen tow'r do wind,
Like withwind roun' the saplen's rind,
An' reach a landen, wi' a seat,
To rest at last your weary veet,
'Ithin a breast be-screenen wall,
To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.
An' roun' the winden steaeirs do spring
Aight stwonen pillars in a ring,
A-reachen up their heavy strangth
Drough forty veet o' slender langth,
To end wi' carved heads below
The broad-vloor'd landen's airy bow.
Aight zides, as you do zee, do bound