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The trav'ller with a cheerful look

Would every pining thought forbear,
If boughs but shelter'd Barnham brook
He'd stop and leave his blessing there.

The Danish mounds of partial green,

Still, as each mouldering tower decays,
Far o'er the bleak unwooded scene

Proclaim their wond'rous length of days.
My burning feet, my aching sight,

Demanded rest,-why did I weep?
The moon arose, and such a night!
Good Heav'n! it was a sin to sleep.

All rushing came thy hallow'd sighs,
Sweet Melancholy, from my breast;
"Tis here that eastern greatness lies,
"That Might, Renown, and Wisdom rest!
"Here funeral rites the priesthood gave
"To chiefs who sway'd prodigious powers,
"The Bigods and the Mowbrays brave,*
"From Framlingham's imperial towers.

In 1101, the castle and lordship of Framlingham, which had till that time constituted a part of the royal domain, were granted by Henry the 1st to Roger Bigod, and were successively pos sessed by five earls of that powerful family. In consequence of the will of Roger the last earl, it became vested in the hands of Edward the 2nd; and was granted in 1214 together with the other vast possessions of the Bigods, to Thomas of Brotherton, fifth son of Edward, the 1st earl of Norfolk, and marshal of England. After the death of this earl and Mary his wife, the castle and lordship became successively vested in the ladies Joan and Margaret, the first of whom was married to William earl of Ufford, the last to John lord Segrave, whose daughter and heiress marrying John lord Mowbray, was created duchess of Norfolk; and upon her death the castle, honors and lordship of Framling ham decended to her son Thomas lord Mowbray, created here. ditary earl marshal of England, and duke of Norfolk. The first Roger Bigod founded the abbey at Thetford, in 1101. Four of his successors were interred there, as were many of the Howard family.

Full of the mighty deeds of yore,

I bade good night the trembling beam;
Fancy e'en heard the battle's roar,

Of what but slaughter could I dream?
Bless'd be that night, that trembling beam,
Peaceful excursions Fancy made:
All night I heard the bubbling stream,
Yet, Barnham Water wants a shade.

Whatever hurts my country's fame,
When wits and mountaineers deride,
To me grows serious, for I name

My native plains and streams with pride.
No mountain charms have I to sing,
No loftier minstrel's rights invade;
From trifles oft my raptures spring;
--Sweet Barnham Water wants a shade.

HOLY WELLS,
A Legendary Tale.

BY MRS. J. COBBOLD, OF HOLY WELLS, IPSWICH.

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During the latter part of the Anglo-Saxon dynasty, the Danes, who had become a powerful people in the north, turned their attention southward, and at various times invested these coasts with a view of finally getting possession of the country. Suffolk shared largely in the general calamity, resulting from the depredatory incursions of these lawless plunderers. Within the space of ten years, they pillaged the town of Ipswich twice; first in or about the year 991; and again in 1000. In 1000 Ulfketel, desirous of restoring the fortunes of his degraded country, risked a battle with the Danes

at Nacton, but his vigorous and persevering courage proved unavailing. He sustained a signal defeat; and the Danish triumphs were complete. The whole of East Anglia was over-run; neither towns nor churches were spared, unless redeemed by the inhabitants with large sums of money; and the most dreadful outrages were every where committed.

time.

The scene of this legend is in Wykes, a hamlet in the parish of St. Clement, Ipswich, which was given by Richard I. to John Oxenforde, one of the founders of Trinity Priory in that town, bishop of Norwich, and author of an history of England down to his own The hamlet and manor, from this circumstance, received the appellation of Wykes Bishop, and belonged to the see of Norwich till 1535, when they were given by act of parliament to Henry VIII. who granted them in 1545 to sir John Jermie, knt. Whilst in the possession of the bishops, they used frequently to reside at their house here, which was situated on the south side of the road leading from Bishop's Hill towards Nacton. A square mound indicates the site of the house, and some beautfully clear springs, gushing out of an adjacent hill, on the estate of John Cobbold, esq. still retain the appellation of" Holy Wells." Many institutions, &c. are said in the books at Norwich to have been granted at this place.

The church of Wykes is sometimes mentioned in old writings, but it is not known where it stood; and possibly it might be no more than a chapel for the use of the bishop and his attendants.

LONG had the battle doubtful stood;
The sick'ning sun, from fields of blood,
In western clouds withdrew his light,
When conquest crown'd the wav'ring fight,
And swift, athwart the sandy plain,
The Angles chac'd the routed Dane.
On silken banner bath'd in gore
An aged chief the raven bore;

Short his retiring step, and slow,
And oft he turn'd to face the foe:
His strength, by bleeding gashes quell'd,
A youthful squire as oft upheld,
Who, though no dark'ning down began
To shade his cheek and write him man,
Now prov'd himself, in early fight,
A henchman brave, for bravest knight.
The victor bands that round them clos'd
That gallant pair awhile oppos'd,
Then fainting in the conflict vain,
Fell, breathless, on a hill of slain.
And kites and crows a requiem sung
O'er Hurder bold and Ivan young.
Through clouds in heavy volumes roll'd,
Pale gleam'd the moon on corses cold,
Thick strewing all the heathy bed

'Twixt Deben's wave and Orwell's spread.*
O'er Ivan's cheek, as marble pale,
Reviving swept the midnight gale.
And rouz'd his soul from sickly trance
To mem'ry's pang and horror's glance:
In speechless agony he prest

Brave Hurder's lip, and gory breast,
And thought he felt, in doubtful strife,
One faint short throb of ling'ring life:
By hope with sudden strength endued,
The boy like young Alcides stood;
From death's cold heap, with sinewy force
He bore that pale and bleeding corse,
And rent his vest, and scarf, and bound
With tender care each gaping wound.

* See note at page 16. -

O could the youth those gashes lave,
In bubbling fount or limpid wave,
Then might return life's gentle heat,
Then life's soft pulse distinctly beat:
But o'er that wild and barren sand
No fountain cheers the thirsty land;
The weary shepherd on the plain,
For shade and streamlet sighs in vain.

With patient step, those desarts o'er,
His precious burthen Ivan bore,
And faint with toil the stripling grew
When Yppe's turrets rose to view :
Here wooded hills, with yielding brow,
Slop'd to the Orwell's wave below,

And bright the moon's emerging beam
With trembling radiance mark'd the stream,
While dark and broad her shadows fell
O'er deep ravine and bushy dell.
As Ivan paus'd, a murmur near
Of gushing waters met his ear,
With cheering note of holy bell
From chapel lone or hermit's cell,
And through the dark wood's deepest shade
The taper's glimmering radiance play'd.
With every failing nerve new strung,
To life, to hope, the mourner clung,
And firmer bore his charge, and toil'd
Adown that pathway rough and wild;
Nor flinty rock, nor tangled briar,
Might stay his step, or courage tire,
Till, reach'd the the hermit's mossy cell,
Prone, fainting, on the floor he fell.
A sage had fix'd his dwelling there
For pensive solitude and pray'r;

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