ST. KNIGHTON'S KIEVE.
Silent and still was the haunted stream,
Feeble and faint was the moon's pale beam,
And the wind that whispered the waving bough
Was like the sound of some godless vow.
Far in the distance the waters fell
Foaming o'er many a pinnacle;
They waged with the crags an angry fight,
'Twas a dreary sound in the dead of night.
But the place where we stood was a quiet nook,
Like a secret page in nature's book;
Down at our feet was the midnight well,
Naught of its depths can the daylight tell.
An old oak tree grows near to the spot,
Gray with moss of long years forgot;
They say that the dead are sleeping below,
'Twas a shrine of the Druids ages ago.
One alone stood beside me there,
The dismal silence I could not bear;
A mariner wild from beyond the sea:
I wish that he had not been with me.
Over the gloomy well we hung,
And a long, long line with the lead we flung;
And as the line and the hook we threw,
Darker and darker the waters grew.
With gibe and jest that mariner stood,
Mocking the night of that gloomy flood;
Quoth he, "when the line brings its treasure up,
I'll drain a deep draught from the golden cup.
"I only wish it were filled with wine,
Water has little love of mine;
But the eyes I'll pledge will lend a glow,
They're the brightest and wickedest eyes I know
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