The farmer's son, who lived across the bay, A rolling stone of here and everywhere, WALKING TO THE MAIL John. I'm glad I walk'd, How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, James. Yes. And when does this come by ? John. What is it now? James. The mail? At one o'clock. James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see? No, not the County Member's with the vane: A score of gables. 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 He lost the sense that handles daily life That keeps us all in order more or less And sick of home went overseas for change. James. Nay, who knows? he 's here and there. But let him go; his devil goes with him, James. You saw the man on Monday, was it? Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, “ What! You 're flitting!" Yes, we 're flitting," says the ghos (For they had pack'd the thing among the beds,) "Oh well," says he, "you flitting with us tooJack, turn the horses' heads and home again." John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back 'Tis now at least ten years — and then she was ——— You could not light upon a sweeter thing: A body slight and round, and like a pear 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. That fit us like a nature second-hand; John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, As from a venomous thing: he thought himself Should break his sleep by night, and his nice eyes Of those that want, and those that have: and still She, Destructive, when I had not what I would. James. Not they. What know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows But put your best foot forward, or I fear That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes three piebalds and a roan. EDWIN MORRIS; OR, THE LAKE. O ME, my pleasant rambles by the lake, 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 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 All-perfect, finish'd to the finger-nail. And once I ask'd him of his early life, 66 My love for Nature is as old as I; But thirty moons, one honeymoon to that, And three rich sennights more, my love for her. 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, 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 : Tho' if, in dancing after Letty Hill, I do not hear the bells upon my cap, I scarce hear other music: yet say on. What should one give to light on such a dream? I ask'd him half-sardonically. "Give? Give all thou art," he answer'd, and a light |