A DEVONSHIRE COPSE RAMBLE. 223 



It is wonderful to see how great a change has taken place in our woods 

 and fields, within the last month. Then they were filled with Spring flowers 

 innumerable; now, scarcely any can be seen, except the Germander Speedwell, 

 {Veronica chamcedrys,) the Spiked Speedwell, {V. spicata,) 



"Looking up with gentle eye of blue, 

 To the younger sky of the self-same hue," 



With a few of the Cranesbills. But they have given place to others as 

 beautiful, although perhaps not quite so highly valued as those which come 

 as "bright harbingers of Spring." The foliage of the trees is now in perfection 

 — the dark shades of the Oak and the Sycamore contrasting beautifully with 

 the paler tints of the Ash, and the rich spike of white flowers of the Chestnut. 

 The air is filled with sweet odours, and everything is full of freshness and 

 vigour. William Howitt, in one of his very many charming works on the 

 country, says, that if ever he was tempted to turn angler, it would be now; 

 merely for the pleasure of rambling by a quiet stream away from the -cares 

 of the world, amidst the beauties of nature; even though taking not a single 

 fin. Does not this find an echo in the heart of many a true lover of nature? 

 What can equal the rosy tints of the Apple blossom, which we see in all 

 directions in Devonshire? one tree white; another the richest crimson; others 

 too of a more delicate hue, tempting us almost to exclaim with Ebenezer 

 Elliott, 



"Wliat virgin's cheek 

 Can mutch the Apple bloom?" 



There cannot be a more delightful walk than through some of our Devonshire 

 Copses. Perhaps a few lovers of Botany will ramble with me for a while 

 through one of them. About a mile from where I write is Bid well Copse, 

 at one time famous for the numerous pic-nics which took place there, under 

 the shade of a fine old Oak, cut down about twelve years since, which bore 

 the name of Bidwell Oak. Round this tree seats and a stone table were 

 placed, and a stream of the purest water ran underneath. The beauties of 

 Bidwell were lauded a hundred years ago, by Dr. Benjamin Kennicott, the 

 able divine and literary critic — a native of Totnes: — 



"0 beauteous Bidwell! dearest rural seat! 

 May endless verdure deck thy soft retreat; 

 "With thee dwell every joy! Thy silver stream, 

 By swains and nymphs be sung in pleasing theme. 

 Eise into glory — call the poets forth, 

 To pay tlie debt of justice to thy worth." 



Mss. Poem, 1750. 



The Copse is entered by crossing a little rustic wooden bridge, under which 

 ripples a clear brook, 



"Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, 

 The spreading Blue-bells." 



Keats. 



Which runs into the Dart about half-amile below. Everything here appears 



