KENDAL. 51
tion of the sacred edifice was in vain, the object of his search not happening to be there.
��Kendal, the eldest born of Westmoreland, With its white homes, and cheerful poplar shades. And graceful bridges o er the winding Ken, And happy children playing in the streets, Came pleasantly upon us.
So we paused,
Leaving the echo of the tiresome wheels, Rejoiced, amid those rustic haunts to roam, And grassy lanes.
There was an ancient church, Dark -browed, and Saxon-arched, and ivy-clad ; And there amid its hallowed isles we trod, Reading the mural tablets of the dead, Or poring o er the dimly-sculptured names Upon its sunken pavement.
Next, we sought
Yon lonely castle, with its ruined towers, Around whose base the tangled foliage, mixed With shapeless stones, proclaimed no frequent foot Intruder mid its desolate domain. Yet here, the legend saith, thine infant eye First saw the light, Catharine ! the latest spouse Of the eighth Tudor s bluff and burly king. Here did thy childhood share the joyous sports That well it loved ? Or did they quaintly set The stiff-starched ruff around thy slender neck,
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