With persevering toil he made,
Within the rocky height,

A cell wherein he daily prayed,
And laid his head at night;
And soon his fame for virtue grew,
Each case of grief he sought;
Each broken heart his goodness knew,
Each erring soul he taught.

The young by soft persuasion's power
From ruin's brink he charmed:
The old in death's despairing hour,
By prayer their fears disarmed;
Nor studied he man's vain pursuits,
Nor sought he his own good:
The wild born race of nature's fruits,
His simple daily food.

His drink from Severn's stream he drew,
Innoxious to the brain;

His bed the rushy tribe that grew,

Upon the neighbouring plain; Though poor he to the poor was kind,

With food and nightly rest:

And every weary wandering mind

Was made a welcome guest.

Bnt time, with thought and heavy care, Had turned his locks to grey;

And years to him brought no relief,

To inward grief a prey.

One eve as musing o'er the past,
On Blackstone's rocky height,
A voice his startled ear addressed,
For shelter through the night.
"A fugitive now asks your aid,
Oppressed with heavy woe;
By guilty conscience ever weighed,
No further can I go;

For yonder town this twice ten years
Has been my constant jail,

Unvaried subject of my fears,
I durst not seek the vale.

"But fears now to the winds I've cast,

To you I fly to tell

The grievous sin of years long past,
Which makes this earth a hell;-
When youth's tumultuous passions reigned,
Within my ardent heart,

I loved a maid, yet never deigned

My passion to impart.

"She in the higher ranks was bred,
I of a lower grade,

Yet daily I my vain hopes fed
That she for me was made,
Till busy rumour spread abroad

That she her plight had made,
To have none other for her lord,
But true Sir Harry Wade.

"With deep revenge my heart then beat And thoughts of blackest hate :

I swore when they at church should meet
To end their happy state.

When on the morn the lovely maid
Was to be giv'n away

To bless the bold Sir Harry Wade—”
"Stay," cried the Hermit, "stay.

"Here you behold Sir Harry Wade,
Here now at last we meet ;
I bless the hour you hither strayed,
My vengeance now's complete ;
Soon to their feet they eager sprang,

And grasped each other tight,
Whilst with their cries the valleys rang,
Beneath the dizzy height.

Like warriors on the battle plain,

More fierce their struggles grew,

And grasped each other in fell strain,
As near the edge they drew ;
With panting breath and eager eyes,
The Hermit pressed him sore;
And flung the Refugee head-long,
Where Blackstone's eddies roar.

Nor eulogy nor name was traced

Upon that tomb, though gilt:

Nought, nought but sorrow's form was placed,

And sword deprived of hilt;

And here the lovers lie enshrined.

Whilst in his watery bed,

Her murderer sleeps on sands reclined,

Forgotten with the dead.

At Blackstone, just one mile from Bewdley, there are the remains of a Hermitage, cut in the solid rock, the one room being a library, the other a bed room, and the third a chapel ; it was very much as it was originally, when I visited it, except that instead of a library, the first room was occupied by a cider mill, the bed room by onions, and the chapel by worn-out farming tools; the Hermits chimney is cut completely up through the rock, and through it the sky may be seen.

The situation of the Hermitage is delightful. In the front of the cell there is a seat carved in the rock, close on the border of the eastern side of the Severn, and having views of Winterdyne House and Rock, and Ribbesford Hall and Wood, and the Church on the opposite side of the river. The Hermitage must be of

very ancient date, and some say that in modern times it was often made use of by the trow and bargemen who did a little in the smuggling line; be that as it may, many of the Barons, during the reign of the Conqueror, and of some of the succeeding monarchs, were fond of hewing out, and ending their days in such retreats as the Hermitage of Blackstone; for which purpose they generally chose some spot of superior scenery. There are but few more so than this.

Bewdley was the nearest Town of Refuge to Stratford-onAvon, but in the Charter granted by James I. we find it was from thenceforth "to be and remain a Town or Borough of peace and quiet, to the terror and astonishment of the wicked, and the reward of the good." This is a proof of the former character of the place.

The Bridge House was the name of the gate that stood upon the old Bewdley bridge, (the stone for which was given by Henry VI.) it served, in addition to its being a Gate, as a Town Prison and Toll-house; the other three Gates were, Tinker's Gate, leading to Lower Arley; the Welch Gate, leading to Ludlow; and the Dog Lane Gate, leading to Bridgnorth, all on the west side of the river.

The River Rea, mentioned in the eighth stanza, runs through the Hamlet of Deritend, at Birmingham, and I need scarcely say that it is one of the most unpoetical rivers in England.

The manor and mansion house of Clopton mentioned in this tradition are both situated a mile and a half from Stratfordon-Avon, and have been held by the Clopton family for upwards of five hundred years, having been granted to them in the time of Henry III. One of the younger brothers was Lord Mayor of London in 1492. He built a bridge of nineteen arches which is 376 yards long, over the widest part of the Avon; and bequeathed many benefits to the poorer inhabitants and to the college.

The oldest monument to the family of the Cloptons, is an altar tomb, in the parish church of Stratford-on-Avon, raised 4 feet