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, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. James. Yes. John. James. The mail? And when does this come by? John. What is it now? 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. John. And whither? 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 i. ? - Was haunted with a jolly ghost, that shook Sets out, and meets a friend who hails him, "What! John. Oh yet but I remember, ten years back A body slight and round, and like a pear s clean and white as privet when it flowers. James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved t first like dove and dove were cat and dog. he was the daughter of a cottager, ut of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, ew things and old, himself and her, she sour'd o what she is: a nature never kind! ike men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. hat fit us like a nature second-hand; And but for daily loss of one she loved, James. Not they. John. Well- - after all What know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us, who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, 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 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, "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 : 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 " |