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The Legend of St. Loy

With Other Poems. By John Abraham Heraud
  
  

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XVIII.

They thrid the wood, and climb the hill,
Still upward wend, unwearied still —
Though high the hill, and vast the wood,
And thick the forest brethren stood —
Thou, wizard Wood of Toteham's brow,
An Omen to the valley thou!
“When Tottenham Wood is all on Fire,
“Then Tottenham Street is nought but Mire.

The occasion of this prouerbe arose from a great Wood, called Tottenham Wood, of many hundred akers, upon the top of an high hill in the West end of the parish, which may easily be seene of all those which dwell elsewher in the same, as also in Edelmton, and into Essex. It is obserued, that whensoeuer a foggy thicke mist doth arise out of this Wood, and hang ouer it, or houer aboute it in manner of a smoake, that it's generally a signe of raine and foule weather; and in rayny weather, the streate lying very lowe, although gravelly, is for the most part drown'd or ouerflowed with water. This, therefore, to them, and to those adjoining neighbours, is in this case in sted of a prognostication: the like vse doe the inhabitants of Staffordshire, and other their neer neighbours, make of Snowden Hills, in Wales, and Malborne Hills, in Worcestershire.”

Bedwell.



114

Hovering like smoke upon thy crest,
When mist involves thy fiery breast,
Dark as on Snowdon lowers,
In many an eddying volume rolled;
The trembling tenants of the Wold,
Prophetic of the showers,
Dread the dark augury of the Flood,
Which, aye to make thy warning good,
Still on their harvest pours,
And sorrow o'er the deluged plain,
Which Hope had blessed, but blessed in vain!
And ever superstitious Eld,
As oft as she the Fog beheld,
Accused the spirits ill,
Who haunted then the wildering Wood,
And raised the portent of the Flood
That mantled o'er the hill;
And laughed to see the ruin spread,
And triumphed in the peasant's dread:
But now she smiles to see
The winter morn so clear and blue,
The wood of such a snowy hue,
From cloud and vapour free;

115

And that the tempest of the night
Had passed, when many a wicked sprite
Joyously revelled there:
And lo, the hill no threatening bore,
And the calm azure sweetly wore
A look of promise fair —
But through the Wood of Toteham Hill
They wind their way the while,
All silent and invisible,
Regardless of her smile.