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THE WALK.

HE Sun's rim tops the western hill

And tedded is the hay:
Tell me, my lads, the way you walked

This glorious summer's day.”

“ Down through the Pit-field first we sped,

With whoop and merry call;
And through the narrow hunting gate

Beneath the wych-elm tall.

“And turning by the nut-grown lane,

We skirted Coxhead hill,
Where yet beneath the quickset hedge

The dew lay bright and chill.

“ But in the sun the grass was dry,
And
every

blade was rife With low shrill hum, and buzzings strange,

The stir of insect life.

“ And with the grass all wild flowers grew,

Of thousand scents and dyes ;
And round and round in myriads flew

Blue chalk-hill butterflies.

“We climbed the path-way on the hill

With odorous junipers beset; There frisked the squirrel, there crept away

The silent leveret.

“ Then over-head the spruce-firs met,

And made a sudden calm : And on the left a rural song

Flew upwards from the farm.

“ We heard the stock-dove moan, unheard

No woodland thing might stir; Our path was grown with moss, and strown

With sheddings of the fir.

" Then in the beech-wood's doubtful shade

We threaded one by one,
By a half-subdued and mellow light,
The maze of sheeny stems, upright

As Gothic pillars carved in stone.

“Where tangled in green foliage-flakes,

The sun beams struggling through, Just faintly flecked the dry dead leaves,

Blank wintry residue

« Of withered things, that ankle-deep

Bestrewed the blackening ground, At

every step raised in a heap With crisp and juiceless sound.

“ Then by the little lonesome lodge

We left the beechen wood;
And gazing over Mickleham's vale,

Awhile enraptured stood ;

« Till William first the silence broke;

Who's for a steeple-chase ?' he cried; Nor waited for compliance cold, But down the slope like hunter bold,

Or lapwing fleet of foot he hied.

“With right good will adown the slope

We followed at full speed;
And leaped the low and rugged fence

That parts that lovely mead.

“ And when to the churchyard we came :

There stood, just past the stile,
The rector at his garden-gate;

With frank approving smile
Soothly our steps he would have staid ;
With open heart and tongue he bade

Us rest beneath his roof awhile.

“ With courteous gest and speech we past,

And through the churchyard ground, With sun and shade alternate cast

O'er many a grassy mound

“ About the modest house of prayer,

Whose spire both low and small O'ertops not much the ivy bower

Upon the Saxon wall.

“ We crossed the highway, took the lane

That from the village leads
To where the heights of Norbury Park

Look down on richer meads ;

* And alders, by the river Mole,

And poplars straight and slim are seen, And weeping ash, and every soft

Variety of green.

“ Quaint river Mole! that loth to flow

By ordinary rules,
Infirm of purpose, breaks and parts

In cold disjointed pools,

“ United still through filtering sands,

Unseen by human eye,
Like gems securely linked to gems,

Though by some hidden tie.

“ Awhile we rested here, but soon

The highway found again
By the foot-bridge, and stiles, and gaps,

And long Westhumble lane.

Again we paused; the sun rode high;

Hard seemed it to decide
At once to scale the far-famed slope

Of Box-hill's chalky side.

“One spoke at length, “ Take heart of grace,'

So said, so done :-right soon we passed The half-way yew trees leaning from

The rude south-western blast

“ Breasted the steep with virgin turf

Clad since the hill was young ;

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