What rural objects steal upon the sight,
* * * * *
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent,
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent,
The woody island and the naked mead,
The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed,
The rural wicket and the rural stile,
And frequent interspersed the woodman's pile.
Among his poems of later date, there is one unfinished fragment in this manner, of yet higher beauty.
Or should the day be overcast,
We'll linger till the show'r be past;
Where the hawthorn's branches spread
A fragrant cover o'er the head;
And list the rain-drops beat the leaves,
Or smoke upon the cottage eaves;
Or silent dimpling on the stream
Convert to lead its silver gleam.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Lives of the English Poets, by Henry Francis Cary