“Thank you, that will do for the present, Mr. Smythe.”
We began to talk about travelling in Scotland, Switzerland, and other parts, when I gave a little of my experience in plain words, as to the effect of the scenery upon my mind and health, when he suddenly interrupted me and said, “Let me see, what is it the poet says upon that? If I can call it up, I will give it you, Mr. Bond,—
‘Go abroad,
Upon the paths of Nature, and, when all
Its voices whisper, and its silent things
Are breathing the deep beauty of the world,
Kneel at its simple altar.’”
I spoke of neglected genius both in Church and State, when he exclaimed with much emphasis, as though the lines had fallen on my ears for the first time,—
“Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
A voyage to America, with a few incidents about the sea, were spoken of.
“Ah, ah, Mr. Bond,” he said, “I have seen some fine lines by J. G. Percival on that subject,—
‘I, too, have been upon thy rolling breast,
Wildest of waters! I have seen thee lie
Calm as an infant pillowed in its rest
On a fond mother’s bosom, when the sky,
Not smoother, gave the deep its azure dye,
Till a new heaven was arched and glassed below.’
“And then, Mr. Bond, you are familiar with—
‘The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth’s wide region round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies;
Or like a cradled creature lies.’”