Of Heaven's own light about it, though its leaves
Are wet with ev'ning tears!
So smiles this flow'r:
And if, perchance, my lay has dwelt too long.
Upon one flower which blooms in privacy,
I may a pardon find from human hearts,
For such was my poor Mother![4]
We pass over some marine sketches, which are worthy of the Vernet of poets, a touching description of the sinking of a packet-boat, and the first sound and sight of the sea—the author's childhood at Uphill Parsonage—his reminiscences of the clock of Wells Cathedral—and some real villatic sketches—a portrait of a Workhouse Girl—some caustic remarks on prosing and prig parsons, commentators, and puritanical excrescences of sects—to some unaffected lines on the village school children of Castle-Combe, and their annual festival. This is so charming a picture of rural joy, that we must copy it:—
If we would see the fruits of charity.
Look at that village group, and paint the scene.