86 THE AUTHOR OF " DARTMOOR. '^ 



And vacant eye, stroll oft among the works. 

 The miracles of Nature, unimpress'd 

 By all they see, and undelighted too 

 At the soft sounds that ever are abroad ; — 

 The hum of bee, the whisp'ring of the breeze. 

 The rush of wings, the leap of sportive fish, 

 The sky's clear song, the music of the leaf, 

 And the melodious lapses of the rills." 



HOME. 



"The ling'ring eye 

 Dwells for a moment on the prospects near 

 The Home we prize so much. O still we turn 

 Unto that sacred spot with such delight. 

 Such aching fondness, that no charm on earth 

 May separate us long ! How strong the power 

 Of Local Sympathy — the potent charm 

 Which binds Man to his darling home ! and he 

 Who values not the leafiness that waves. 

 The stream that flows above, around, his cot, 

 And to whose view the limner, Fancy, paints 

 No flatt'ring picture of his native hills, 

 Is to his nature's noblest feelings lost.'* 



OCEAN. 



" But who that climbs the brow sublime, and thence 



Surveys the dread immensity of sea, 



Wild heaving often here, and seldom lull'd 



To deep tranquillity, e'en by the hush 



Of summer, feels not pleasure, wonder, awe 



Alternate, as in breeze, or gale, or storm; 



He gazes on its bosom ! On the waste 



Of waters, rolling from the birth of Time, 



The great and fathomless Ocean, swathing round. 



As with a girdle, this stupendous earth. 



The eye would dwell for ever! Every shore 



The wave of Ocean visits. On it roams 



Through the bright, burning zone where ardent gales 



Cool their scorch'd pinions in it. Indian airs 



From bowers of bliss, waft o'er its smiling face 



Perfumes of Paradise, and round the poles, 



Startling the eternal solitudes of snow, 



The restless wanderer howls !" 



THE RUINS OF TREMATON. 

 " The awful spoils 

 Of ages, mould'ring o'er her ample breadth, 

 The ruins of a thousand fitful years, 

 England displays to him who loves to muse 



