Had startled nations, wakening to their woes,

Were prisoners here. And there were some whose dreams Were of sweet homes, by chainless mountain streams, And of the vine-clad hills, and many a strain

And festal melody of Loire or Seine;

And of those mothers who had watched and wept, When on the field the unsheltered conscript slept, Bathed with the midnight dews. And some were there Of sterner spirits, hardened by despair;

Who, in their dark imaginings, again

Fired the rich palace and the stately fane,
Drank in their victim's shriek as music's breath,

And lived o'er scenes, the festivals of death!

Yes! let the waste lift up the exulting voice!
Let the far-echoing solitudes rejoice!

And thou, lone moor! where no blithe reaper's song
E'er lightly sped the summer-hours along,
Bid thy wild rivers, from each mountain source
Rushing in joy, make music on their course!
Thou, whose sole records of existence mark
The scene of barbarous rites, in ages dark,
And of some nameless combat; Hope's bright eye
Beams o'er thee in the light of prophecy!
Yet shalt thou smile, by busy culture drest,
And the rich harvest wave upon thy breast!
Yet shall thy cottage-smoke, at dewy morn,
Rise in blue wreaths above the flowering thorn,
And, midst thy hamlet-shades, the embosomed spire
Catch from deep-kindling heavens their earliest fire.

Felicia Hemans.

DARTMOOR.

IN sunlight and in shade,

Repose and storm, wide waste! I since have trod
Thy hill and dale magnificent. Again

I seek thy solitudes profound, in this

Thy hour of deep tranquillity, when rests
The sunbeam on thee, and thy desert seems
To sleep in the unwonted brightness, calm,
But stern; for, though the spirit of the Spring
Breathes on thee, to the charmer's whisper kind
Thou listenest not, nor ever puttest on

A robe of beauty, as the fields that bud
And blossom near thee. Yet I love to tread
Thy central wastes, where not a sound intrudes
Upon the ear but rush of wing or leap
Of the hoarse waterfall. And O, 't is sweet
To list the music of thy torrent streams;
For thou too hast thy minstrelsies for him
Who from their liberal mountain-urn delights
To trace thy waters, as from source to sea
They rush tumultuous.

Noel Thomas Carrington.

I

Dartside.

DARTSIDE. 1849.

CANNOT tell what you say, green leaves,
I cannot tell what you say;

But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks,
I cannot tell what you say;

But I know that there is a spirit in you,
And a word in you this day.

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams,
I cannot tell what you say;

But I know that in you too a spirit doth live,
And a word doth speak this day.

"O, green is the color of faith and truth, And rose the color of love and youth,

And brown of the fruitful clay.

Sweet Earth is faithful and fruitful and young,
And her bridal day shall come erelong,

And you shall know what the rocks and the streams

And the whispering woodlands say."

Charles Kingsley.

Dawlish.

A DEVONSHIRE LANE,

A SIMILE.

Na Devonshire lane, as I trotted along

IN

T' other day, much in want of a subject for song, Thinks I to myself I have hit on a strain,

Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.

In the first place 't is long, and when once you are in it,

It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet;

For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round.

But though 't is so long, it is not very wide, -
For two are the most that together can ride;
And even then 't is a chance but they get in a pother,
And jostle and cross and run foul of each other.

Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks,
And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks,
And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass,
Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.

Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, That they shut up the beauties around from the sight;

And hence you'll allow, —'t is an inference plain, That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

But, thinks I too, these banks within which we are pent, With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent; And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam Looks lovely, when decked with the comforts of home.

In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose,
And the ever-green love of a virtuous wife
Smooths the roughness of care, cheers the winter of life.

Then long be the journey and narrow the way!
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

John Marriot.

DE

Dean-Bourn.

DEAN-BOURN, A RUDE RIVER IN DEVON.

EAN-BOURN, farewell; I never look to see
Deane, or thy warty incivility.

Thy rockie bottome, that doth teare thy streams,
And makes them frantick, ev'n to all extreames,
To my content, I never sho'd behold,

Were thy streams silver, or thy rocks all gold.