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CHAPTER X. 
I ask no dirge— 
The foaming surge 
Of the torrent will sing a lament for me ; 
And the evening breeze 
That stirs the trees 
Will murmur a mournful lullaby. 
Plant not — plant not — 
Above the spot 
Memorial stone for the stranger's gaze ; 
The earth and sky 
Are enough, for I 
Have lived with Nature all my days ! — Moik. 
My next Fern-tour, after Cornwall, was to the 
Lakes. 
I seemed to have left in the south the monu- 
ments and recollections of the past, to bask for a 
time in the roseate hues shed back upon the 
world from the great intellects that had so lately 
