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WINDBOUND AT FOLKESTONE, IN LODGINGS.
MPATIENT traveller! chide not the waves
And winds that, leaping from their hollow caves, Forbid thy progress : let thy better reason Argue submission to the clime and season. But if the booming cadence of the sea, These spray-flakes storm-driven fast and furiously, Yon shoal of porpoises that sea-ward go, Traced by their gambols, heavy, dark, and slow, Fall hopelessly upon thine eye and ear, And different objects thou wouldst fain require, Turn within doors to view, whilst yet you may, An English matron, by an English fire, The last you are to see for many a day, Speeding light duties, lighter for such cheer.
Folkestone, October, 1843.
ERE is the holy gloom of ancient days,
Tempered with modern sunshine: here a maze Of streets, where rich antiquities survive, Concludes in quays as busy as a hive: And whether Gothic piles we contemplate ; Or muse o'er speaking records of the fate Of nations; or with curious pleasure trace Some kindred features in each Norman face; Or climb Saint Catherine's height, and thence survey The city's spires, domes, river, bridges, ships, The spirit of the place doth ever stand In garments of religious holiday Distinct before us, and with angel lips Speaks to an English heart of Fatherland.
Rouen, October, 1843.
SCARCELY WITHIN REACH OF THE PENCIL.
ETWEEN Saulieu and Chalons on the Saone,
There is a place called Ivry, whence the road Winds round a vine-clad warm Burgundian slope, Unto a waste upon a ridge of hills Where summer rarely comes; and there we saw The straight white road before us, and the wains That toiled along it, far between and few, To all appearance motionless; the last Diminished in the distance to a speck. On either side the ploughshare had wrought out Deformed uncleanly furrows, timidly Encroaching on the waste : low grey stone walls Offered a scant protection : here and there Short stunted oak and hazel, thorn and briar, Struggled with skeleton fragments of the rock, Denuded, worn, storm-eaten : on the right, Against the sky-line loomed a single tower, Whereon a melancholy telegraph Was set to wave its arms aloft in air,
Like signals of distress: it was a place
Nay, my friend, Why thus depict a desert ?
Lyons, October, 1843.
IN THE HOTEL AT AVIGNON.
TO AN ITINERANT MUSICIAN.
KNOW that tune—that voice-and, sooth,
Those half-wild notes are far from faint ones : I little dreamed in Avignon, Poor boy, upon the banks of Rhone, To greet thee as an old acquaintance !
Yet I should grievously have erred,
I know thee well; but thou in me
Thou in our wondrous thoroughfares