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 business 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, alone. 



What a thought to the mind that knows its 

 history and value ay ! he may be bold enough to 

 say who has known and felt it, what a blessed 



