"'Here be the quarried stones' (ye grant), 'skilled craftsmen
come at call;
But with no more of water-store how _can_ we build the wall?'

"Nay, listen: Last year's vintage crowds our cellars, tun on tun:
With wealth of wine for yours and mine, dare the work go undone?

"Quick! bring them forth, these mighty butts: let none be elsewhere sold,
And I will pay this very day their utmost worth in gold,

"That so the mortar that cements each stone within the shrine,
For her dear sake whom God did take, may all be mixed with wine."

* * * * *

'Twas thus the baron built his tower; and, as the story tells,
A fragrance rare bewitched the air whene'er they rang the bells.

A merrier music tinkled down when harvest-days were long:
They seemed to chime at vintage-time a catch of vintage-song;

And when the vats were foamed with must, if any loitered near
The minster tower at vesper hour, above him he would hear

Tinglings, as of subsiding trills, athwart the purple gloom,
And every draught of air he quaffed would taste of vineyard bloom.

MARGARET J. PRESTON.