"Oh! who would cast and balance at a desk, Perch'd like a crow upon a three-legg'd stool, Till all his juice is dried, and all his joints Are full of chalk? but let me live my life. "Who'd serve the state? for if I carved my name Upon the cliffs that guard my native land, I might as well have traced it in the sands; The sea wastes all: but let me live my life. "Oh! who would love? I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind, And all my heart turn'd from her, as a thorn Turns from the sea: but let me live my life." He sang his song, and I replied with mine: I found it in a volume, all of songs, Knock'd down to me, when old Sir Robert's pride, "Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me: Sleep, Ellen, folded in thy sister's arm, And sleeping, haply dream her arm is mine. "Sleep, Ellen, folded in Emilia's arm; Emilia fairer than all else but thou, For thou art fairer than all else that is. "Sleep, breathing health and peace upon her breast: Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn. "I go, but I return: I would I were A rolling stone of here and everywhere, Twilights of airy silver, till we reach'd The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walk'd. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike? James. Yes. John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. James. A quarter to. John. What is it now? John. Whose house is that I see? No, not the County Member's with the vane: James. That? Sir Edward Head's: James. No, sir, he, Vex'd with a morbid devil in his blood That veil'd the world with jaundice, hid his face James. Nay, who knows? he's here and there. James. You saw the man- on Monday, was it? Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, "What! (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) "Oh well," says he, "you flitting with us too Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again." John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard. John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back- As clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved At first like dove and dove were cat and dog. She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, To what she is: a nature never kind! Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. - but for this As never sow was higher in this world James. Not they. What know we of the secret of a man? after all His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows To Pity- more from ignorance than will. But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes With five at top: as quaint a four-in-hand As you shall see three pyebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, Of city life! I was a sketcher then: See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge, When men knew how to build, upon a rock, O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull 137 The curate; he was fatter than his cure. But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names, Long learned names of agaric, moss and fern, Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks, Who taught me how to skate, to row, to swim, Who read me rhymes elaborately good, His own I call'd him Crichton, for he seem'd And once I ask'd him of his early life, 'My love for Nature is as old as I; To some full music rose and sank the sun, Or this or something like to this he spoke. Then said the fat-faced curate Edward Bull, 'I take it, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world. A pretty face is well, and this is well, To have a dame indoors, that trims us up, And keeps us tight; but these unreal ways Seem but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff. I say, God made the woman for the man, And for the good and increase of the world.' 'Parson' said I 'you pitch the pipe too low: But I have sudden touches, and can run My faith beyond my practice into his: |