XII. 

 A WORD AT PARTING. 



MURKY 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 the 

 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 'bell, book, and candle/ from which the mind 

 would wander back a-field, over every yard of nicely 

 levelled drain ; and hear, in fancy, the drip drip drip 

 going on through the silent night, while weary la- 

 bourers sleep, and Nature, the unwearied labourer, 



STILL WORKS alonr. 



What a thought to the mind that knows its his- 



