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For a man who once kept them in London, they say, Found out that they came here to dine every day.)

But at present, for reasons I'll give when we meet, I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat ; And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while, On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile? On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,

Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades, With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees The hills up above him with roofs in the trees? Now too, while the season,-half summer, half spring,

Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and

sing;

And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,

And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,

And little white clouds lie about in the sun,

And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?

Even now while I write, I'm half stretched on the

ground

With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me

round,

Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,

While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers. People talk of " poor insects," (although, by the way, Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they); But lord, what a set of delicious retreats

The epicures live in,-shades, colours, and sweets! The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em, Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em ;

And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em, What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.

G

Here perks from his arbour of crimson or green
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:-
Here, over my paper another shall go,

Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,Till he reaches the writing,-and then, when he's eyed it,

What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it! No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,

Can be graver when he too first crosses the line :Now he stops at a question, as who should say "Hey?"

Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A; Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink, And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.

Oh the wretched transition to insects like these From those of the country! To town from the trees! Ah, Tom,-you who've run the gay circle of life, And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,

Who in Bond-street by day, when the press has been

thickest,

Have had all the "digito monstror" and "hic est," Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded'

streets,

Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats, And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,

In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—

Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm

there)

Can the town, after all, with the country compare?

But this is a subject I keep for my last,

Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.―

Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town; Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.

HARRY BROWN.

EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER LETTER TO THE SAME.

Per me si va nella città dolente.-DANTE.

Through me you go into the city,-grieving.

WOULD you change, my dear Tom, your old mode of proceeding,

And make a dull end to a passage worth reading,— I mean would you learn how to let your wit down, You'd walk some fine morning from Hampstead to

town.

What think you of going by gardens and bowers, Through fields of all colours, refreshed by nightshowers,

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