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THE KING OF THE PEAK.
A DERBYSHIRE TALE.
What time the bird wakes in its bower
He stood, and looked on Haddon Tower;
High rose it o'er the woodland height,
With portals strong and turrets bright,
And gardens green; with swirl and sweep
Round rushed the Wye, both broad and deep.
Leaping and looking for the sun,
He saw the red deer and the dun;
The warders with their weapons sheen,
The watchers with their mantles green;
The deerhounds at their feet were flung,
The red blood at their dew-laps hung.
Adown he leaped, and awhile he stood,
With a downcast look and pondering mood,
Then made a step and his bright sword drew,
And cleft a stone at a stroke in two:
"So shall the heads of my foemen be,
Who seek to sunder my love from me.'
Remains of the ancient frank and open-hearted hospitality of old England linger yet among her vales and mountains; and travellers are not unfrequently greeted with a patriarchal welcome and a well-spread table, without the chilling formality of a fair-penned and prudently-worded introduction. The open bounty of hill, and wood, and vale, and sea is poured in wholesale profusion on many of the fortunate dwellers in the country; while on those who forsake the wonders of God for the works of man, the green land and the glorious air for the confusion of the city, Nature sprinkles her favours with a sparing and a niggard hand. The city strives in vain to emulate the frank kindness of the country, and opens her doors, but opens them with a sad civility and a constrained and suspicious courtesy. In the
