X.

And lo! where sighing 'neath her Maker's hand,
The rosy life slow stealing through her form,
Her forfeit godhood, 'mid th' Olympian band,
Fair Venus mourns, with mortal blushes warm.

XI.

Look round, a life's whole utterance is here;
Through Phidian forms each subtle thought is told;
Profound, yet simple, lovely, yet austere,
The soul was pure, its struggles manifold.

XII.

And thus was reach'd the goal; by steadfast will
And no vain dalliance with a lofty aim.
But strong and tireless, ruthless to fulfil
Each ardent purpose, so was won this fame.

XIII.

Each day was as a pearl laid on a shrine,
That shrine a consecrated life, all vow'd
A rigid sacrifice to art divine,
And through art's priesthood did this man serve
God.

XIV.

For he was one who, 'mid the pomp and strife
Which men forlorn miscal felicity,
Fulfill'd the mission of a nobler life,
And won from work his immortality.

XV.

Death sways not where creative art bestows
An infinite success to high endeavour;
Harmoniously the circle ebbs and flows
The workman in his work shall live for ever!

DANIEL GUMB'S ROCK.

THERE is no part of our native country of
England so little known, no region so seldom
trodden by the feet of the tourist or the
traveller, as the middle moorland of old Cornwall.
A stretch of wild heath and stunted gorse,
dotted with swelling hills, and interspersed
with rugged rocks, either of native granite or
rough-hewn pillar, the rude memorial of ancient
art, spreads from the Severn Sea on the west
to the tall ridge of Carradon on the east, and
from Warbstow Barrow on the north to the
southern civilisation of Bodmin and Liskeard.
Throughout this district there is, even in these
days, but very scanty sign of settled habitation.
Two or three recent and solitary roads traverse
the boundaries; here and there, the shafts and
machinery of a mine announce the existence of
underground life; a few clustered cottages, or
huts, for the shepherds, are sprinkled along the
waste; but the vast and uncultured surface of
the soil is suggestive of the bleak steppes of
Tartary or the far wilds of Australia, and that
in the very heart of modern England. Yet is
there no scenery that can be sought by the
antiquary or the artist that will so kindle the
imagination or requite the eye or the mind of
the wanderer as this Cornish solitude. If he
travel from our storied Dundagel, eastward,
Rowtor, the Red Tor, so named from its purple
tapestry of heather and heath, and Brünguillie,
the Golden Hill, crested witli yellow gorse, like
a crown, will win his approach and reward,
with their majestic horizon, the first efforts of
his his pilgrimage. The summits and sides of
these mountains of the west are studded with
many a logan-rock or shuddering-stone of the
old superstition. This was the pillar of ordeal
in Druid times, so poised that while it shook at
the slight faint touch of the innocent finger, it
firmly withstood the assailing strength of the
guilty man.

Passing onward, the traveller will pause amid
a winding outline of unhewn granite pillars, and
he will gradually discover that these are set up
to represent the coils of a gigantic serpent,
traced, as it were, in stone. This is a memorial
of the dragon-crest of a Viking, or the demon-
idol and shrine of an older antiquity. Not far
off there gleams a moorland lake, or mimic sea,
with its rippling laugh of waters—the Dozmere
Pool of many an antique legend and tale,
the mystic scene of the shadowy vessel and the
Mort d'Arthur of our living bard. A sheep
track—for no other visible path will render
guidance along the moor leads on to Kilmarth
Tor, from the brow of which lofty crag the eye
can embrace the expanse of the two seas which
are the boundaries of Cornwall on the right and
left. There, too, looms in the distance Rocky
Carradon, with the valley of the Hurlers at its
foot. These tall shapes of granite, grim and
grotesque, were once, as local legends say, nine
bold upstanding Cornish men, who disdained
the Sabbath-day; and as they pursued their
daring pastime and "put the stone," in spite of
the warning of the priest, they were changed,
by a sudden doom, where they stood up to play,
and so were fixed for ever in monumental rock.
Above them lowers the Devil's Wring, a pile of
granite masses, lifted, as though by giant or
demon strength, one upon another; but the
upper rocks vast and unwieldy, and the lower
gradually lessening downward, until they rest,
poised, on a pivot of stone so slender and small
that it seems as though the wind sweeping over
the moor would overtopple it with a breath;
and yet centuries many and long have rolled
over the heath, and still it stands unshaken
and unswerved. Its name is derived from the
similitude of the rocky structure to the press
wherein the ancient housewives of rude
Cornwall were accustomed to "wring" out the milk
from their cheese. Not far off from this singular
monument of "ages long ago" there is
found to this day a rough and rude assemblage
of moorstone slabs, some cast down and others
erect, but manifestly brought together and
arranged bv human hands and skill. There is
still traceable amid the fragments the outline of
a human habitation, once divided into cells, and
this was the origin and purpose of this solitary
abode. It was the work and the home of a remarkable
man-- an eccentric and original character
among the worthies of the west—and the place
has borne ever since the early years of the last
century the name of Daniel Gumb's Rock. He
was a native Cornishman, born in a cottage
that bordered on the moor, and in the lowlier
ranks of labouring life. In his father's house