---------------------------- I moved on
With low and languid thought, for I had found
That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms
Where the eye vainly wanders, nor beholds
One spot with which the heart associates
Holy remembrances of child or friend,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adored country. _O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
Oh "dear, dear" England, how my longing eyes
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!_ Sweet native isle,
This heart was proud, yea, mine eyes swam with tears
To think of thee; and all the goodly view
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim.
_Amulet for_ 1829.
We wish a few more of the tourists who are picking their way over the
continent, would illustrate their books of travels with such noble
sentiments as are contained in these few lines--instead of the querulous
whinings about cheap and dear living, the miseries of our climate, and a
thousand other ills of the _malade imaginaire_.
* * * * *
Madame De Souza used to say that "cleanliness is the excellence of the
poor."
* * * * *
The Gatherer.
A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
Shakspeare.
* * * * *