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,

His books-the more the pity, so I said Came to the hammer here in March-and this

I set the words, and added names I knew: 'Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, sleep, and dream of me:

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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 upou her breast;

Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip.

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I go to-night; I come to-morrow morn.
I go, but I return; I would I were
The pilot of the darkness and the dream.
Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of
me.'

So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son, who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal,

And in the fallow leisure of my life
A rolling stone of here and everywhere,
Did what I would. But ere the night we

the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hillside was redder than a fox! Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike?

James. John.

Yes.

And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. What is it now?

John.

You could not light upon a sweeter thing; A body slight and round, and like a pear In growing, modest eyes, a hand, a foot Lessening in perfect cadence, and a skin As clean and white as privet when it flow

ers.

James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved

At first like dove and dove were cat and dog.

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She was the daughter of a cottager, Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, New things and old, himself and her, she sour'd

To what she is; a nature never kind! Like men, like manners; like breeds like, they say.

Kind nature is the best; those manners next That fit us like a nature second-handWhich are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past,

And fear of change at home, that drove him hence.

I

James.

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That was the last drop in the cup of gall.

once was near him, when his bailiff

All-perfect, finish'd to the finger-nail.

And once I ask'd him of his early life, And his first passion; and he answer'd me, And well his words became him- was he not

A full-cell'd honeycomb of eloquence Stored from all flowers? Poet-like he spoke:

'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.

My love for Nature and my love for her, Of different ages, like twin-sisters grew, Twin-sisters differently beautiful.

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To some full music rose and sank the sun, And some full music seem'd to move and change

With all the varied changes of the dark, And either twilight and the day between; For daily hope fulfill'd. to rise again Revolving toward fulfilment, made it sweet To walk, to sit, to sleep, to wake, to breathe.'

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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 Seen but the theme of writers, and indeed Worn threadbare. Man is made of solid stuff.

I say, God made the woman for the man, 50 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 have other music
- yet say on.
What should one give to light on such a
dream?'

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The crown of all, we met to part no more.'

Were not his words delicious, I a beast To take them as I did? but something jarr'd;

Whether he spoke too largely, that there seem'd

A touch of something false, some self-conceit,

Or over-smoothness; howsoe'er it was, He scarcely hit my humor, and I said: 'Friend Edwin, do not think yourself alone

Of all men happy. Shall not Love to me, As in the Latin song I learnt at school, Sneeze out a full God-bless-you right and left?

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This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,

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Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs, In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold, In coughs, aches, stitches, ulcerous throes and cramps,

A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, Patient on this tall pillar I have borne Rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow;

And I had hoped that ere this period closed Thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest,

Denying not these weather-beaten limbs The meed of saints, the white robe and the palm.

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