The present crest and motto are of modern date, and explain each other: the serpent is the emblem of wisdom, as the olive and the vine are of peace and plenty. But upon what occasion this distinction was taken does not appear. THE ROOKS OF FURNESS. "Caw! Caw!" the rooks of Furness cry. "Caw! Caw!" the Furness rooks reply. In and about the saintly pile, Over refectory, porch, and aisle, Perching on archway, window, and tower, Hopping and cawing hour by hour. Saint Mary of Furness knows them well! They are souls of her Monks laid under a spell. They were once White Monks; ere the altars fell, And the vigils ceased, and the Abbey bell Was hush'd in the Deadly Nightshade Dell. "Caw! Caw!" for ever, from morn Till night they trouble the ruins forlorn: Roger the Abbot, parading in black, Briand the Prior, and scores at his back Of those old fathers cawing amain, All robed in rooks' black feathers, in vain Waiting again for the Abbey to rise, For matins to waken the morning skies, And themselves to chant the litanies. "Caw! Caw!" No wonder they caw! To see--where their vigorous rule was law-- Fair Love with his troops of youths and maids, With holiday hearts, through greenwood shades Come forth, and in every Muse's name, With songs, a joyful time proclaim; And to hear the car-borne Demon's yell, The Steam-Ghoul screeching the fatal knell Of peace in the Deadly Nightshade Dell. "Caw! Caw!" still over the walls You wheel and flutter, with ceaseless calls; Thinking, no doubt, of your cells and holes, You poor old Monks' translated souls! Sad change for you to be cawing here, And black, for many a hundred year! But haunt as you may your ancient pile, You will never more chant in the holy aisle; You never will kneel as you knelt of yore; Nor the censer swing, nor the anthem pour; And your souls shall never shake off the spell That binds you to all you loved so well, Ere the altars fell, and the Abbey bell Was hush'd in the Deadly Nightshade Dell. "Caw! Caw!" In the ages gone, When the mountains with oak were overgrown, Up the glen the Norskmen came, Lines of warriors, chiefs of fame-- With Bekan the Sorcerer, earthward borne, By toil, and battle, and tempest worn-- Crowding along the dell forlorn. Over the rill, high on the steep, There in his barrow wide and deep, With axe and hoe those armed men Buried him down, by the narrow glen, With the flower, at his feet, of wondrous spell: Buried him down, and covered him well, And left him hid by the lonely Dell.