Were Sunday.  And some melancholy Bard
  Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:—­
  “Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here. 
  Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill,
  Unseen—­let the majestic Dahlia
  Glitter, an Empress, in her blazonry
  Of beauty; let the stately Lily shine,
  As snow-white as the breast of the proud Swan,
  Sailing upon the blue lake silently,
  That lifts her tall neck higher, as she views
  The shadow in the stream!  Such ladies bright
  May reign unrivall’d, in their proud parterres! 
  Thou would’st not live with them; but if a voice,
  Fancy, in shaping mood, might give to thee,
  To the forsaken Primrose, thou would’st say,
  ’Come, live with me, and we two will rejoice:—­
  Nor want I company; for when the sea
  Shines in the silent moonlight, elves and fays,
  Gentle and delicate as Ariel,
  That do their spiritings on these wild bolts—­
  Circle me in their dance, and sing such songs
  As human ear ne’er heard!’”—­But cease the strain,
  Lest Wisdom, and severer Truth, should chide.

Next is a sketch of Steep Holms, introducing the following exquisite episode: 

                          Dreary; but on its steep
  There is one native flower—­the Piony. 
  She sits companionless, but yet not sad: 
  She has no sister of the summer-field,
  That may rejoice with her when spring returns. 
  None, that in sympathy, may bend its head,
  When the bleak winds blow hollow o’er the rock,
  In autumn’s gloom!—­So Virtue, a fair flow’r,
  Blooms on the rock of care, and though unseen,
  It smiles in cold seclusion, and remote
  From the world’s flaunting fellowship, it wears
  Like hermit Piety, that smile of peace,
  In sickness, or in health, in joy or tears,
  In summer-days, or cold adversity;
  And still it feels Heav’n’s breath, reviving, steal
  On its lone breast—­feels the warm blessedness
  Of Heaven’s own light about it, though its leaves
  Are wet with ev’ning tears! 
                              So smiles this flow’r: 
  And if, perchance, my lay has dwelt too long. 
  Upon one flower which blooms in privacy,
  I may a pardon find from human hearts,
  For such was my poor Mother![4]

    [4] Daughter of Dr. Grey, author of Memoria Technica, &c. rector of
    Hinton, Northamptonshire, and prebendary of St. Paul’s.

We pass over some marine sketches, which are worthy of the Vernet of poets, a touching description of the sinking of a packet-boat, and the first sound and sight of the sea—­the author’s childhood at Uphill Parsonage—­his reminiscences of the clock of Wells Cathedral—­and some real villatic sketches—­a portrait of a Workhouse Girl—­some caustic remarks on prosing and prig parsons, commentators, and puritanical excrescences of sects—­to some unaffected lines on the village school children of Castle-Combe, and their annual festival.  This is so charming a picture of rural joy, that we must copy it:—­