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Past cot and farm, through vale and dell ;
Winding like a silken cord
Where hawthorn wild,
The woodland's child, Delights the eye with bloom.
Where trailing honeysuckles wind their stems
Around the trees and rocks ;
Of starry hue
And deep, dark blue, Bright groups of silent beauty.
Past reeds and rushes, where the duck,
The coot and water-hen
And rest secure,
Though still endure The sounds of dog and gun.
By mill and weir, with bridge and pier,
Across the foaming tide;
And ferns both tall and wide.
Where turning round
With joyous sound
In small, tumultuous cataracts
Of waters white and strong ; Whose rushing, leaping, bounding waves Are full of life and song ;
As on their course
They murmur hoarse Throughout the livelong day.
So ever on, and deep'ning as it goes,
A tributary bright,
In bonds for ever
Which none can sever, Save He who made us all.
And thence toward the Mighty Sea,
Whose billows evermore Proclaim that future Vast Eternity Beyond this Earthly Shore,
Where weary rest
Amid the blest,
That Night again amid my Dreams
I saw the Streamlet glide ; And heard again as distant bells The music of its tide;
To rise and swell
As an Ocean shell
It spoke to me of a gladsome time
In years long, long ago ;
And free from care,
And swift as hare,
How soon those happy Schoolboy Days flew by!
Full well do I remember ; Till eagerly I longed to cast The ties of School asunder;
alack ! I wish them back, With all the Master's Thunder.
Then came the Maiden whom I loved
With eyes of winning glow;
Like bloom upon the sloe.
She won my heart,
But oh, the smart !
Then sought I in the World's broad Battlefield
To win a share of Fame,
And thus remove
The pangs of Love
Alas, alas ! as Time sped by,
I found no Comfort there;
And left me lone
Yea, all alone
Yet onward still this Course of Life
Through varied Scenes doth run
Already to mine ear
In accents sweet and clear
Composed at Brawby, July, 1885. The Rye and Seven are the Rivers from whence the various Scenes are taken.
THE EVENING BREEZE.
of Eve! I love thy soft caress, As Daylight, loth to leave,
Still lingers in the West.
I love thy gentle Song ;
As through the Country lanes, Thine anthems peal along;
With fragrance of the plains.
Thy breath is nectar sweet,
Like honey from the bee; Borne on thy pinions fleet,
From mountain, moor, and lea.
'Tis sweet to hear thee pass
O'er rocky Cliffs at Night; Making music mid the grass,
That crowns their rugged height.
With wondrous soothing sound,
And lonely wild refrain; Thine airy chariots bound,
To join the restless Main.