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do not mean a broad carriage-road lane, but one of those lovely 
little narrow winding dingles, arched over with Wild-briar and 
Woodbine, where the air is full of perfume, and the banks 
bright with flowers. How refreshing it is to step into such an 
one, from the sunny and shadeless fields, to sit beneath the 
hedge of Hawthorn and Hazel-bushes, 
’Mong the gay weeds and verdant grass; while high 
Into the slumbering air majestic trees 
Roar their proud leafy crests. — Below, 
Singing along its shallow pehbly bed. 
Sparkles a little rivulet, whose voice 
Tells soothingly of Summer’s parching thirst 
In its cool wave allayed; and murmurs oft 
Its one unvaried tune, till listening ear 
Of weary wayfarer grows less acute, 
And, lulled by its soft music, he is lapped 
In some sweet di'eam of pleasant drowsyhead. 
Spenser paints a scene like this in language like the 
colouring of Claude : 
Then gan the shepheard gather into one 
His straggling goates, and drave them to a foord. 
Whose cerule stream, rombling in pible stone, 
Crept under mosse as greene as any goard. 
Now had the sun halfe heaven overgone, 
When he his heard back from that water foord 
Drave, from the foixe of Phoebus’ boyling ray, 
Into thick shadowes, there themselves to lay. 
* * * * # 
