170 SPRING-TIDE. 



when a boy, long ere I had the strength to cast 

 a fly, 



" I loved the brimming wave that swam 



Through quiet meadows round the mill, 

 The sleepy pool above the dam. 



The pool beneath it never still, 

 The meal sacks on the whitened floor, 



The dark round of the dripping wheel, 

 The very air about the door 



Made misty with the floating meal." 



But here is our village Church. Is not this 

 a quiet spot, good anchorage for a storm- 

 tossed spirit ? 



J. Such nooks are only to be seen in 

 England : I know of nothing to compare 

 with them. 



S. This is one of my most favourite 

 spots. When a younger man I once caught 

 myself, while lounging here, uttering thoughts 

 which ran somewhat in this strain : 



When I am dead let me not buried lie 

 Where the world's hubbub sounds continually ; 

 No funeral pomp, no marble tomb I crave, 

 A simple slab alone shall mark my grave ; 

 Robin's sweet note my only dirge shall be, 

 My epitaph the good man's memory. 



