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Beyond its proper bound, yet still confin'd,
Of either earth or heaven? It is a flaw
Dear Reynolds! I have a mysterious tale,
The greater on the less feeds evermore.—
And so from happiness I far was gone.
Still do I that most fierce destruction see,-
Ravening a Worm,-Away, ye horrid moods!
You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell
To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church,
Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.
IN A LETTER TO HAYDON.
"I have enjoyed the most delightful walks these three fine days, beautiful enough to make me content."
ERE all the summer could I stay,
And Coomb at the clear Teign's head;
You may have your cream,
All spread upon barley bread.
There's Arch Brook,
And there's Larch Brook,
Both turning many a mill;
There's a wild wood,
A mild hood,
To the sheep on the lea o' the down,
With its green, thin spurs,
There's Newton Marsh,
With its spear-grass harsh,--
A pleasant summer level;
Where the maidens sweet
Of the Market street,
Do meet in the dark to revel.
There's Barton rich,
With dyke and ditch,
And hedge for the thrush to live in
And the hollow tree
For the buzzing bee,
And a bank for the wasp to hive in.
And O and O,
The daisies blow,
And the primroses are waken'd;
And the violets white
Sit in silver light,
And the green buds are long in the spike end.
Then who would go
Into dark Soho,
And chatter with dank-hair'd critics,
When he can stay
For the new-mown hay,
And startle the dappled crickets?
"There's a bit of doggerel; you would like a bit of botheral."
HERE be you going, you Devon maid? And what have ye there in the basket?
Ye tight little fairy, just fresh from the dairy,
Will ye give me some cream if I ask it ?
I love your hills and I love your dales,
But oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
I'll put your basket all safe in a nook; Your shawl I'll hang on a willow; And we will sigh in the daisy's eye, And kiss on a grass-green pillow
TOUR IN SCOTLAND.
(June, July, August, 1818.)
ON VISITING THE TOMB OF BURNS
HE town, the churchyard, and the
The clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem,
Though beautiful, cold—strange—as in a dream,
The short-lived paly Summer is but won
Cast wan upon it! Burns! with honour due