INTRODUCTION.
Glastonbury, anciently called Avalon, is a place much celebrated both
in tradition and history. It was here, according to old legends, when
the neighbouring moors were covered by the sea, that St Joseph of Arimathea
landed, and built the first church in England. It was here that
the glorious King Arthur was buried, with the inscription:—
Hic jacet Arturus, rex quondam, rexque futurus.
It was here that the scarcely less glorious King Alfred took sanctuary,
and hence that he went into voluntary obscurity when the Danes invaded
England. Here also was built that magnificent abbey, whose riches and
hospitality were known to all Christendom. Its last abbot was murdered
on the Tor Hill by order of Henry the Eighth, and the building was sacrificed
to the misguided fury of the Reformation. The very ruins are now
fast perishing.
The Quantock Hills, alluded to in the following poem, are in the autumn
profusely covered with the mingled blossoms of heath and furze.