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, feet; And then, after all, to encounter a throng of Canal-men, and hod-men, unfit to make song of, 'Tis Swift after Spenser, or daylight with candles, sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's, A step unexpected, that jars one's inside, A reckoning, a parting, a snake in the grass, A time when a man says, "What! Come to this pass!" EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER TO THE SAME. THE BERKELEIAN SYSTEM. You know, my dear Tom, that the objects we see, us; And mountains, like lovers, whatever their hue, When kept at a distance, are sure to look blue. The thing is notorious. Nay, as for that matter, To talk about colour is only to chatter; For like a complexion put on for the night, 'Tis all but a business of optics and light; And a pair of red garters, although 'twould be wrong to Are just, in the dark,—like the girl they belong to. This truth, though it's stale to the present deep age, Friends, pictures, books, gardens, like things in romances, To him were but fictions,-agreeable fancies; And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches, Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes. Did he cry, "A thought strikes me," you turn'd round to know What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot; |