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.

Dartside.

DARTSIDE. 1849.

I 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.

a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along

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

Rockie thou art; and rockie we discover
Thy men; and rockie are thy wayes all over.
O men, O manners! now, and ever knowne
To be a rockie generation!

A people currish, churlish as the seas,
And rude, almost, as rudest salvages;

With whom I did, and may re-sojourne when
Rockes turn to rivers, rivers turn to men.

Robert Herrick.

Dean Priory.

DISCONTENTS IN DEVON.

TORE discontents I never had

M°

Since I was born then here,
Where I have been, and still am sad,

In this dull Devonshire.

Yet justly too I must confesse,

I ne'r invented such
Ennobled numbers for the presse,

Then where I loath'd so much.

Robert Herrick.