XII. 

 A WORD AT PARTING. 



MUEKY days of November ye have come and gone 

 again, over one at least who has found out and 

 tasted of your Poetry : and in turning over the 

 leaves of a crowded diary of years and days gone 

 by, his hand can scarce touch without the gentle 

 pressure of old fellowship the page after page that 

 recounts tbe active busy-ness which lighted up even 

 your dark atmosphere and drizzling skies ; till the 

 spent and scanty day again and again drove him, 

 reluctant, to the "beD, book, and candle," from 

 which the mind would wander back a-field, over 

 every yard of nicely leveled drain ; and hear, in 

 fancy, the drip, drip, drip, going on through the 

 silent night, while wearied laborers sleep, and Na- 

 ture, the unwearied laborer, STILL WOEKS alone. . 



"What a thought to the mind that knows its his- 

 tory and value ay! he may be bold enough to say 



