With white sails flashing in the sunlight's ray, Of countless vessels, near and far away; Here the wild sea-gull plumes her snowy breast, Then skims the wave or perches on the crest Of some majestic cairn, or cromlech where Long ages past the Druids knelt in prayer, Till, with stretched wing, she cleaves the fields of blue, Dips 'neath th' Atlantic, and is lost to view." One of the most delightful spots on the grounds of Boskenna is a little wooded glen, through which flows a clear stream, embowered by luxuriant foliage and fringed with ferns, flags, and[37] sedges, amongst which many rare wild flowers show their elegant bells of pale blue, and star-like blossoms of every tint. The brooklet and shady walk wind down this little vale to St. Loy Cove, where, within a few years, there stood on the verge of the cliff, the walls and altar of a chapel dedicated to St. Eloi; but, a few years ago, this interesting relict of the piety of ages past, with its wrought-stone altar, was thrown over cliff by the, then, occupier of an adjacent cottage, without the knowledge or permission of the owner of the property. The vestiges of this sacred building were thus toppled into the sea, merely that a few feet of land might be gained for growing early potatoes; and now nothing remains but the name of St. Loy to connect this romantic spot with the saint by whom Chaucer's "Wife of Bath" was accustomed to swear. We fear that the mention of this realistic, marriage-loving dame may put to flight all poetic notions; yet hear what our Cornish poetess, Mrs. S. E. Tonkin, (from whom we have quoted above) says of this hallowed shrine. "A pleasant ramble through a bosky vale; A pause to hear a babbling brooklet's tale; A moment's lingering by its mossy well, And I, once more, am in St. Loy's green dell. Ages ago, as old traditions say, The monks devout stole here to fast and pray; Within these wilds they communed by the sea, And reared for worship a fair chapelry, Where pious souls, and needy, found them rest, And by their prayers and sanctity were blest. Naught now remains to whisper of the past; Still, o'er the spot a holy light is cast, In gothic arches yon fair trees entwine, Low-drooping o'er the consecrated shrine, And waves come singing, as they inland flow, Thrilling the heart with strains of long ago."