Hot sunbeams fill the steaming vale; but hark,
At our approach, a jealous watch-dog's bark,
Noise that brings forth no liveried Page of state,
But the whole household, that our coming wait.
With Young and Old warm greetings we exchange,
And jocund smiles, and toward the lowly Grange
Press forward, by the teasing dogs unscared.
Entering, we find the morning meal prepared:
So down we sit, though not till each had cast
Pleased looks around the delicate repast, -
Rich cream, and snow-white eggs fresh from the nest.
With amber honey from the mountain's breast;
Strawberries from lane or woodland, offering wild
Of children's industry, in hillocks piled;
Cakes for the nonce, and butter fit to lie
Upon a lordly dish; frank hospitality
Where simple art with bounteous nature vied,
And cottage comfort shunned not seemly pride.

Kind Hostess! Handmaid also of the feast, If thou be lovelier than the kindling East, Words by thy presence unrestrained may speak Of a perpetual dawn from brow and cheek Instinct with light whose sweetest promise lies, Never retiring, in thy large, dark eyes,Dark, but to every gentle feeling true, As if their lustre flowed from ether's purest blue.

Let me not ask what tears may have been wept By those bright eyes, what weary vigils kept,

Beside that hearth what sighs may have been heaved
For wounds inflicted, nor what toil relieved
By fortitude and patience, and the grace
Of Heaven in pity visiting the place.
Not unadvisedly those secret springs

I leave unsearched enough that memory clings,
Here as elsewhere, to notices that make
Their own significance for hearts awake,
To rural incidents, whose genial powers
Filled with delight three summer morning hours.

More could my pen report of grave or gay That through our gypsy travel cheered the way; But, bursting forth above the waves, the Sun Laughs at my pains, and seems to say, " Be done." Yet, Beaumont, thou wilt not, I trust, reprove This humble offering made by Truth to Love, Nor chide the Muse that stooped to break a spell Which might have else been on me yet:

FAREWELL.

Note.-LOUGHRIGG TARN, alluded to in the foregoing Epistle, resembles, though much smaller in compass, the Lake Nemi, or Speculum Diane as it is often called, not only in its clear waters and circular form, and the beauty immediately surrounding it, but also as being overlooked by the eminence of Langdale Pikes, as Lake Nem is by that of Monte Calvo. Since this Epistle was written, Loughrigg Tarn has lost much of its beauty by the felling of many natural clumps of wood, relics of the old forest, particularly upon the farm called "The Oaks," from the abundance of that tree which grew there.

It is to be regretted, upon public grounds, that Sir George Beaumont did not carry into effect his intention of constructing

UPON PERUSING THE FOREGOING EPISTLE THIR

TY YEARS AFTER ITS COMPOSITION.

SOON did the Almighty Giver of all rest
Take those dear young Ones to a fearless nest;
And in Death's arms has long reposed the Friend
For whom this simple Register was penned.
Thanks to the moth that spared it for our eyes;
And Strangers even the slighted Scroll may prize,
Moved by the touch of kindred sympathies.
For, save the calm repentance sheds o'er strife
Raised by remembrances of misused life,
The light from past endeavors purely willed
And by Heaven's favor happily fulfilled,-
Save hope that we, yet bound to Earth, may share
The joys of the Departed, what so fair

As blameless pleasure, not without some tears, Reviewed through Love's transparent veil of years?

here a summer retreat in the style I have described; as his taste would have set an example how buildings, with all the accommodations modern society requires, might be introduced even into the most secluded parts of this country without injuring their native character. The design was not abandoned from failure of inclination on his part, but in consequence of local untowardness which need not be particularized.

II.

GOLD AND SILVER FISHES IN A VASE

THE soaring lark is blest as proud
When at heaven's gate she sings;
The roving bee proclaims aloud
Her flight by vocal wings;
While ye, in lasting durance pent,
Your silent lives employ

For something more than dull content,
Though haply less than joy.

Yet might your glassy prison seem
A place where joy is known,
Where golden flash and silver gleam
Have meanings of their own;
While, high and low, and all about,
Your motions, glittering Elves!

Ye weave,

no danger from without,

And peace among yourselves.

Type of a sunny human breast

Is your transparent cell;
Where Fear is but a transient guest,

No sullen Humors dwell;

Where, sensitive of every ray

That smites this tiny sea,

Your scaly panoplies repay
The loan with usury.

How beautiful!- Yet none knows why
This ever-graceful change,
Renewed, renewed incessantly,
Within your quiet range.
Is it that ye with conscious skill
For mutual pleasure glide;

And sometimes, not without your will,
Are dwarfed, or magnified?

Fays, Genii of gigantic size!
And now, in twilight dim,
Clustering like constellated eyes,
In wings of Cherubim,

When the fierce orbs abate their glare;-
Whate'er your forms express,

Whate'er ye seem, whate'er ye are,

All leads to gentleness.

Cold though your nature be, 't is pure;
Your birthright is a fence

From all that haughtier kinds endure

Through tyranny of sense. Ah! not alone by colors bright

Are ye to heaven allied,

When, like essential forms of light,

Ye mingle, or divide.

For day-dreams soft as e'er beguiled
Day-thoughts while limbs repose;

For moonlight fascinations mild,
Your gift, ere shutters close, -