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Here perks from his arbour of crimson or green
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,
repast.Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town; Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER LETTER TO THE SAME.
Per me si va nella città dolente.-DANTE.
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
What think you of going by gardens and bowers, Through fields of all colours, refreshed by night
Some spotted with hay-cocks, some dark with
ploughed mould, Some changed by the mower from green to pale
gold, A scene of ripe sunshine the hedges betwixt, With here and there farm-houses, tree-intermixed, And an air in your face, ever fanning and sweet, And the birds in your ears, and a turf for your
And then, after all, to encounter a throng of
'Tis Swift after Spenser, or daylight with candles, A sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's,