May no wolfe howle; no screech owle stir

A wing about thy sepulchre!

No boysterous winds or stormes come hither,

To starve or wither

Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,

Love kept it ever ?ourishing.

HERRICK.

IN the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties of England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that lead through the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a village the situation of which was beautifully rural and retired. There was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants not to be found in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I determined to pass the night there, and, having taken an early dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighboring scenery.

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