436 VALEDICTORY LINES. 



Of your homes and your little'ones often I thought; 

 For your pleasures, your wrongs, too, I manfully 



fought ; 

 And, now I am come to the threshold of age, 

 For you I a war still am willing to wage. 

 But no more ! of your songs — of the meadow, or dell — 

 No more — ye wild Warblers! I bid you farewell ! 

 And farewell, too, to song I — for your minstrel 



grows old, 

 And the world, frowning o'er him, looks callous and 



cold. 

 No more he, perchance, shall awaken the lyre, 

 But in this, his last song, his last thoughts may 



transpire. 

 When he sleeps in yon woodland, will you, in the spring, 

 O'er his sod, in remembrance, a requiem sing ; — 

 Will you visit the woods where he once touch'd his 



shell ?— 

 Ye Minstrels of Melody! hail! andFAREWEti! 



seen on a sandy, or smooth muddy shore of more or less 

 flatness. 



I take occasion to observe here that the Sea is a subject of 

 intense interest, solemnity, sublimity, at all times; but, per- 

 haps, most so on a still evening about high water, when it makes 

 no noise except at intervals, as its wavy yet smootli undulations 

 break with a peculiar and indescribable hollow sound as they 

 roll over on the shore, reminding us of 



" Eternity, eternity, and power." 



Procter. 



