98 Idylls of the Field. 



swifts no longer scream down the dismantled aisles. 

 The daws are silent ; all the sounds of day are 

 hushed. 



Somewhere in the valley hoots a restless owl, linger- 

 ing in the shadows till the gloom shall deepen in the 

 abbey. 



Overhead a ringdove flutters out from the shelter of 

 a yew-tree that leans over the lane. 



Its dark boughs overshadow a little space of graves ; 

 a lonely spot, nestling close under the shelter of the 

 hill. The grass grows high round ancient stones 

 whose rude inscriptions and still ruder rhymes hand 

 down the names, the hopes, the fears of men who may 

 have watched for news of the Armada or taken sides 

 with King or Commons. 



There is a half-suggested war-note in the quaintly 

 ordered lines on one recumbent slab : 



INTERED * HE * LYETH * VNDER 



GROVND * VNTEL ' THAT * DAY 



THE ' TRVMPET ' SOVND. 



Surely it is Puritan dust over which a fragment lies 

 bearing, in the lettering of the Stuart time, these words 

 alone : 



I ' TREAD • SATAN * VNDER ' MY * FEET. 



Hard by, upon another broken stone, is traced this 

 brief pathetic phrase — 



AND * ONE * SWEET ' SISTER " ALSO. 



