







H. E. G. AREY. 
And now, when to my roving brain 
There starts some fancy, shrined 
In tints more bright than earth can claim, 
That cavern comes to mind. 
When Winter to the Spring-tide wore, 
Through slumps and sloughs I strayed, 
To list the splashing and the roar 
The mountain torrents made. 
Oh! that was glee; and oft I turned 
In rapture from the shore, 
And said (I know not where I learned) 
The lines about “ Lodore.” 
There was a well-filled garret, where 
I hid on stormy days, 
And built bright castles in the air, 
And conned most ancient lays ; 
And through the snares that Scott has set, 
For fancy roamed with joy, 
Or, from some old and worn gazette, 
I hacked the rhymes of “ Roy.” 
In mouse-holes rare I hid with care 
Those relics of the Muse, 
And wondered who the Poets were 
That scribbled for the News. 

r 
