founder, rise into repute. When the Pelagian heresy, as it was called, re-appeared in Wales, a Synod was called, about 519, to endeavour to check its progress. Moved by repeated entreaties, David at last consented to repair thither and personally engage in the undertaking; and, says Giraldus, "When all the fathers assembled enjoined St. David to preach, he commanded a child which attended him, and had lately been restored to life by him, to spread a napkin under his feet; and, standing upon it, he began to expound the Gospel and the law to the auditory. All the while that his oration continued, a snow-white dove, descending from heaven, sat upon his shoulders; and, moreover, the earth on which he stood raised itself under him till it became a hill, from whence his voice, like a trumpet, was clearly heard and understood by all, both near and far off." If any doubt the truth of these somewhat marvellous statements, let them go to the spot, and there to this day they will assuredly find a little hill, and a church (Llanddewi-Brefi) built upon it in commemoration of the event above-mentioned. return, however, to St. David: it appears the assembly were so delighted with his eloquence and zeal in opposing the obnoxious doctrines, that they unanimously called upon him to accept the Archbishopric of Caerleon, one of the three archiepiscopal seats (York and London being the others) into which England was then divided. David accepted the honours and duties, but on the condition of removing the

To

see to Menevia, the establishment he had founded in the Valley of Roses. The period of these interesting events was the reign of that most interesting of sovereigns-King Arthur. Five-and-twenty archbishops in succession filled the archiepiscopal seat, and then the last of the number withdrew with all his clergy to Brittany, and after the lapse of some time the see became subject to Canterbury. Such was the origin and history of the present Bishopric of St. David's,

The following fancy, written on the Banks of the Wye, may be taken as something like a developement of the origin of these structures in an age of entire force.

A LEGEND OF TINTERN.

Oh, came ye by Tintern, and paus'd ye awhile,
'Neath the ivy-clad turret, the grass-covered pile?
And paus'd ye awhile o'er the bones lying there,
The bold Earls of Pembroke and haughty De Clare?
You heard the wind rave through the arch and the stone,
But you heard not the tale of the days that are gone;
You saw the old window look proud in decay,
But you saw not the pomp of its glorious day.
I'll tell you a legend, I pick'd up while there,
Of the Abbey of Tintern and haughty De Clare.

When Walter de Clare married Eva the Proud,

The old trumpet bray'd loud and the banner wav'd high, But, alas! the lady, she sigh'd for a shroud,

And had rather been borne in the coffin to lie.

Yet proudly she stepp'd in her bridal array,

Though the omens were dark in her pathway that day-
The raven croak'd loud, and the old chapel bell,
Instead of the chimes, toll'd the funeral knell.

Ι

Earl Walter was handsome, Earl Walter was bold,
But his passions were fierce, and unbounded his pride;
The glance of his eye was malignant and cold,

And Revenge rul'd his breast as the moon rules the tide.
His castle was high, but his dungeons were deep;
There slumber'd his victims-how deep was their sleep!
The girl for his passion-the Jew for his pride-
And the Serf for his whim-there they rotted and died.

Oh, sweet Lady Eva, she lov'd not her lord

Ah! how could a dove love a vulture so grim?
To others how tender and kind was each word!
Each word was reproachful and scornful to him.
And short was their courtship-the earl was not kind;
To woo a fair lady was not to his mind;

Her father was stern, she was wed to despair,
Ere she gave her cold hand to the Baron de Clare!

And she died, but ere cold in her coffin she lay,

Did they mark not the wound on her bosom so fair?
Did they note not, or speak ere they bore her away,

Of the gore and the blood on her long golden hair?
Hush! hush! not a word! even a whisper may creep
To his ears, and the dungeons are darksome and deep:
Sad tale and so lovely, so snowy a breast-
Hush! bear her away, in the chapel to rest!

But Conscience would speak, though the minions were still;

Strange lights were oft seen in the room where she died: Strange sounds heard at night, when the castle was still, And a phantom was seen thro' its galleries to glide. Each night, by Earl Walter, all gory she stood; She held forth her hand all bedappled with blood, Saying, "Husband and murderer, thou shalt not rest!" And she tore back the shroud from the wound on the breast.

To Wilfred, the monk, went the murderer Earl,

"Oh, sbrieve me, good father, this spirit of mine!" While he spake, the proud tapers seem'd all in a whirl, And the priest shrunk, alone, to the depth of the shrine; "What, murderer! Ho! what! is mercy for thee? Go! tread the wild desert, and cross the deep sea! A Pilgrim Crusader, go, draw forth thy sword! Then spend all thy wealth in a house to the Lord!"

To the East went Earl Walter, Crusader so bold,
Aton'd for the blood by the shedding of more;
Then back he return'd, and he lavish'd his gold

In building an abbey on Severn's wild shore, Where the valley of Tintern spreads graceful along, Then no sound could be heard save the summer bird's song,

Or the waters that rush'd through the valley, and made A mournful embrace round the black forest's shade.

Lo! the flambeaux blaze high round the richly carv'd shrine,

And the rainbow-dy'd glass, with its legends of fire; Round the nave and the cloisters the mystic lights shine, And the thunders burst forth from the heart of the choir. Aside the gonfanon of glory is laid;

The helm' and escutcheon are cast in the shade,-
"Tis a tomb !-'tis a prison !-the penitent there,
Mourns over the sins of the youthful De Clare.

The monks, that once liv'd there, have long pass'd away;
The wassail, the quire, the memorial blest;
Even abbots and bishops have sunk to decay;

We tread o'er their bones in their deep quiet rest.
How still was their life !-what monotonous days !—
Could Ambition or Passion e'er stir them to praise ?
So tir'd of the world, and like children at play,
They mus'd and they dream'd 'till Death call'd them away.

Yet, oft, when at midnight the moon is on high,

And the long shadow sleeps on the grass-cover'd ground, When the night-bird and bat flit so mournfully bye,

And the sighing winds wail o'er the mountains around, Through the skeleton pile the old splendours are seen; The old mitred abbot-how portly his mien !

And the shades of the past, they fall mournfully there, O'er the grief of Earl Walter, the mighty De Clare.

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CHAPTER VII.

OLD ENGLISH BATTLE FIELDS.

"The power of armies is a visible thing;
Formal, and circumscribed in time and place :
But who the limits of that power shall trace,
Which a brave people into light can bring,
Or hide, at will,-for freedom combating,
By just revenge inflamed? No foot may chase,
No eye can follow to a fatal place,

That power, that spirit, whether on the wing
Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind
Within its awful caves."

WORDSWORTH.

WE may disapprove of war, we may desire to see the departure of the Battle Spirit, we may sigh over the sorrows of the fight, but it is impossible to pass over the field where a great contest was decided, without involving at once our memories and our sympathies with the occasion. There are but few portions of English soil that are not rich and fruitful from the blood of our ancestors; the memory of the old strife is kept alive by the barrows and mounds lying over the plain, by the song of the minstrel so truthful in its typographic delineations, by the monument in the Temple of Peace, by the detail of