Over the dark dewy earth forlorn,
What time the amber morn
Forth gushes from beneath a low-hung cloud."
In the church-yard stands a Norman cross almost single of its kind in England.
Of the subsequent haunts of Alfred Tennyson we can give no very distinct account. I believe he has spent some years in London, and he may be traced to Hastings, Eastborne, Cheltenham, the Isle of Wight, and the like places. It is very possible you may come across him in a country inn, with a foot on each hob of the fireplace, a volume of Greek in one hand, his meerschaum in the other, so far advanced toward the seventh heaven that he would not thank you to call him back into this nether world. Wherever he is, however, in some still nook of enormous London, or the stiller one of some far-off sea-side hamlet, he is pondering a lay for eternity:—
"Losing his fire and active might
In a silent meditation,
Falling into a still delight
And luxury of contemplation."
That luxury shall, one day, be mine and yours, transferred to us in the shape of a third volume; so come away and don't disturb him.