"O sleep, it is a blessed thing,
Beloved from Pole to Pole;

*

To Mary Queen, the praise be given,
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven,
That slid into my soul."

It is morning, the crescent moon has parted from her fair companions in the skies," the swallow's song in the eves" is subdued to the deepest melody of love, and lo! the sun already peers his golden orb above the rounded forehead of the farthest eastern hill, joyous and radiant like a youthful lover setting out to greet his mistress in some distant dell. Morn among the hills, how rich and

invigorating it is! The scene, how varied, how magnificent! Far as eye can reach the towering mountains stretch to the heavens, the numerous woods and groves of pine and oak creep up almost to their summits, save here and there huge fissures in the rock, remnants, perchance, of the ravages of the Deluge, present vast chasms and breaks, which add infinitely to the sublime and picturesque effect. O, thus, many years ago, from such a lone solitude, surrounded, as now, with those music-breathing sycamores, with green-robed mountains around, and blue skies above, beyond Bowness, near Ambleside, and in the midst of the gigantic crags reflected in the peaceful bosom of Windermere, did I then, a youthful dreamer, and fanciful enthusiast, greet morning from her golden towers, and exult even to tears in the magnificence of scenes that there surrounded me,

and which I knew Wordsworth, and Southey, and Wilson, had themselves cherished, loved, and venerated for years.

Mighty power of association, which as by the attraction of a loadstone, brings things distant within the immediate range of the memory. Far, far off, like seabirds in the storm, the visions of those blessed haunts float before me my dwelling by the mountain side, Windermere, Loughrigg, Tarn, Derwent, Hawes, Helvellyn, Skiddaw, Langdale Pikes, Elleray, the snow-white cottage in the wood, once the residence of the sainted Hemans, Rydal Mount, abode of the immortal Wordsworth. -Elleray, where genius and love dwelt in glory and beauty together,-all come before me, bright, radiant, and distinct, even as when I first beheld them, mingling, alas! faintly, with that first dream of affection, which, as a veil of seraphs, or cloud of the inner shrine, shades and obscures, yet glorifies and illuminates all! "O that the desert were my dwelling place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye elements! in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted-Can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err

In deeming such inhabit many a spot?

Though with them to converse may rarely be our lot." But away sentiment, avaunt melancholy-the long day is before us, the wide, far extending vales-and

already the sultry sun darts his molten beams along the distant stream, which it is to be feared will be too clear for our sport. Now for breakfast-and what a tablebeautiful white eggs, tempting us from their neatly arranged cups-fresh, red, rich, steaming ham, newly fried —and, graceful among the rest, our yesterday's leg of mutton, fat and sleek, like a budding beauty, wooing us to its embrace. And the white bread, and brown bread, the cakes and the muffins-where, except in hospitable retired valleys like Bilsdale, can you sit down to enjoyment of fare like this? Breakfast finished, and all our apparatus set in order, we proceeded along the hill sides, down the vale, for about five miles, till we reach Chop Yat, or Gate, the metropolis of Bilsdale, possessing two inns, a blacksmith's shop, and altogether about fifteen or twenty houses. At good Michael Johnstones we have appointed our rendezvous with old Ward, the most nimble fly-fisher of the vale, and so he ought to be, for he has haunted the waters for now at least half a century. A strange old fish he is himself, and with much originality withal ;-one who like Jacques has moralized to some purpose, and who would have delighted the heart of old Isaac Walton in one of his romantic rural rounds.

The immense mountain called the Waits, which like the fragments of some ruined Temple of Baelbec, or Thebes, darkens the blue skies behind us,—the farmhouses, the village, the surrounding groves, all decline in the distance-and now, with rapid steps, we arrive towards the favourite stream. Parting in separate directions,

tions, not to interfere with each other's sport, my worthy host and myself, commence with the smaller stream, and we shall fish about two miles ere we join our companions. What a beautiful water it is,-free from trees, open at the bottom, with a clean loamy bed, and running through pastures that must supply them with plentiful food. But it is far too clear for sport, the finny darlings dart fearlessly about, they can see the line, the gut, the hook, ourselves, everything! What are we to do? We must try the bush-fighting system, like the Affghanistans, and slay our foes in ambush. There is an elder tree,-let us

try! There he spins, the beautiful!—and richly spotted, and glossy, with gold and scarlet are his sides, as he shivers and glitters in the sun. That bonnie lassie too, at the farm-house, who saluted us with a curtsey as we passed, how she laughs for joy at our conquest, and actually claps her hands with delight. She shall have this trout for her breakfast,-and if we return the same way, another or two besides, our only reward, a kiss of her lovely mountain cheeks!

Nothing like perseverance, whether in love or in angling. Neither maids nor fishes, will take a bait at the first throw, you must keep in the shade and angle with skill. Already we have creeled thirteen fine trout, and the day being so hot and sultry, we shall proceed onwards to join our comrades. There they are, and our excellent friend, the best shot, and the best heart in Cleveland, has just at this moment hooked a pounder, -the largest fish we have seen during the day. Not

far distant, is old Ward, and how delicately he throws his fly, softly and gently it floats along the glittering waters, a line of gossamer,—and now, whew! there he goes like a bolt of silver, that noble fish, dart, dart, dart,—a moment more, and he lies struggling among the shining pebbles.

The sun has now attained his meridian, not a single cloud veils the intense blue of the heavens, the very birds are silent in their love, and have retired to the shadiest coverts of the groves, even the fish-the fish— but we must quote the ingenious lines of the Oxford prize poet :

"The sun's perpendicular heat
Illumin'd the depths of the sea,
And the fishes beginning to sweat

Cried d- -n how hot will it be!

So as the trout will no longer take the fly or bait, let us retire to the nearest shelter, and then, as evening advances, fish upwards towards the farm-house amongst the hills.

Crossing the fields, they are all busy hay-making. The maidens and swains are toiling happily, with the light swathes, and, with pleasant jokes and repartees, pass away the hours. Crowned queen, haughty, noble in thy ancestral palace, what wouldst thou give for that joyous bosom, that fearless heart,—those smiles, those jests, that laughter? Pale, lofty lady of fashion, what weight of gold or of jewels would you exchange for that bright, clear, dauntless eye of innocence, and that