130 Idylls of the Field. ' 



into the grey horizon— then a swampy wilderness not 

 seldom inundated by the sea, the haunt of crane and 

 bittern ; the lair of boar and aurochs — has been 

 drained and tilled. 



The forest, except a few dwindling strips of stunted 

 wood, harbour for fox and badger, has long since 

 disappeared. 



But the tall cliffs remain. No hand but that of 

 time has yet been laid on these tremendous ramparts. 

 They have seen Kelt and Roman, Saxon and Norman, 

 pass along the road which sweeps like a winding river 

 at their feet. 



It is historic ground. Every hill-top is crowned 

 with its earthen rampart ; every road follows the 

 course of a Roman way. 



At Wedmore, a few miles out on the moor, are the 

 massy foundations of Alfred's summer palace ; beyond 

 the low blue hills are still ploughed up, at Athelney, 

 fragments of tiles from the monastery which the great 

 West Saxon King is said to have founded there in 

 gratitude for his deliverance. 



Round the grey towers of Wells cling memories of 

 Ken and Still, of Laud and Wolsey. 



The noble ruins of Glastonbury are haunted by dim 

 traditions of Dunstan and King Arthur. 



Many a bold son of the district faced King James's 

 men down there in the moor. 



Along that fatal dyke ; 

 Where Monmouth's boors, with hearts of proof, 

 Kept Churchill's foaming horse aloof ; 



