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And now the topmost ridge appeared ;
Upright on level ground we sprung.
“ With hats in hand we paused for breath;
Whilst o'er our cheeks and hair, With visitation fresh and sweet, For mountaineering roamers meet,
Ran liquid lapse of healthy air.
“ There woods, and hedgerows, parks, and fields
Lay smiling at our feet;
Of Nymphs, and Oreads fleet,
Flew o'er the waving wheat.
“ We likened oldest things to new,
And each with each did vie In scope and penetrating power,
And fantasy of eye.
“ Who Shoreham gap? Who Shankenbury ring ?
Who yonder refuse burning ?
Sees Ewhurst windmill turning?
“ We saw the wild-hawk wheel and wheel
Pursued by felon crows, Freebooter of the feathered race
Begirt by feathered foes.
“ Far down, there rushed a gateway through,
With hurry and affright,
A thousand fleeces bright;
A mill-race foaming white
“ Then slowly pacing on the road,
They raised a dusty cloud,
A sun-illumined shroud.
“ We turned our eyes towards Dorking spire
Reared high above the town;
Upon the south wind blown ;
So gaily had he flown.
“ There rose the Danish camp; beyond,
Old Evelyn's sylvan bower;
And, further yet, the heathery heights
By Leith-hill's lonely tower.
“ And from the chalky pinnacle
Whereon we took our stand,
Sloped graceful o'er the land,
“ And where the limekiln's milk-white reek
Did creepingly appear,
The very sky-line sharp and clear.
" Then, homeward turned, we took our way
Through young-cut oak, and stunted box, And caught a momentary glimpse
Of roaming wild cub-fox;
“ By Birchen-grove, and terraced wild
Of stony-hearted Bramble-haugh, And Middle-hill with thorn-brakes set,
And fern-grown Bullen-shaw.
“ The peewit cried, the partridge called
Her half-fledged scattered brood;
The curlew on the reverberant hill
Loud crew the pheasant in the wood :
“ But nearing now the orchard homestead,
Never a word we spoke,
Beheld the chimney smoke,
From every bosom broke.”
“ Thanks for your tale; and now, good-night!
Enough for all of work and play: Alike the evil and the joy
Suffice unto the day.
“ But I must keep the word I gave
We'll fly the fire-balloon.”
HILST with your dear love, and your
flowers, Luxuriously you linger, Turn once to view the creeping hours
Tracked by my shadowy finger.
But if in idleness you pore
Till day-light runs to waste,
The blame of over haste.
I own no regulating force
Of pendulum or springs;
Inspires my chroniclings.
Though gayer dials may go true,
And be accounted treasures; Put faith in me, ye happy two,
Whose days are spent in pleasures ;