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HE Sun's rim tops the western hill
And tedded is the hay:
This glorious summer's day.”
“ Down through the Pit-field first we sped,
With whoop and merry call;
Beneath the wych-elm tall.
“And turning by the nut-grown lane,
We skirted Coxhead hill,
The dew lay bright and chill.
“ But in the sun the grass was dry,
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 ;
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,
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;
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;
That parts that lovely mead.
“ And when to the churchyard we came :
There stood, just past the stile,
With frank approving smile
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
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,
In cold disjointed pools,
“ United still through filtering sands,
Unseen by human eye,
Though by some hidden tie.
“ Awhile we rested here, but soon
The highway found again
And long Westhumble lane.
Again we paused; the sun rode high;
Hard seemed it to decide
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 ;