Nightingale was much pleased to find himself recorded in my “Farley Heath,” as to both verse and prose.  He has been in the Better World some twelve years, and his widow gave me the collections he called his Tupperiana.

I confess that the following poem wherein my genial friend figures,—­and which many judges have liked as among my best balladisms, is one reason for this record of B.N.

    Farley Heath.

    “Many a day have I whiled away
      Upon hopeful Farley Heath,
    In its antique soil digging for spoil
      Of possible treasure beneath;
    For Celts, and querns, and funereal urns,
      And rich red Samian ware,
    And sculptured stones and centurions’ bones
      May all lie buried there!

    “How calmly serene, and glad have I been
      From morn till eve to stay,
    My men, no serfs, turning the turfs
      The happy livelong day;
    With eye still bright, and hope yet alight,
      Wistfully watching the mould,
    As the spade brings up fragments of things
      Fifteen centuries old!

    “Pleasant and rare it was to be there
      On a joyous day of June,
    With the circling scene all gay and green
      Steep’d in the silent moon;
    When beauty distils from the calm glad hills,
      From the downs and dimpling vales;
    And every grove, lazy with love,
      Whispereth tenderest tales!

    “O then to look back upon Time’s old track,
      And dream of the days long past,
    When Rome leant here on his sentinel spear
      And loud was the clarion’s blast;—­
    As wild and shrill from Martyr’s Hill
      Echoed the patriot shout;
    Or rush’d pell-mell with a midnight yell
      The rude barbarian rout!

    “Yes; every stone has a tale of its own,
      A volume of old lore;
    And this white sand from many a brand
      Has polish’d gouts of gore;
    When Holmbury Height had its beacon light,
      And Cantii held old Leith,
    And Rome stood then with his iron men
      On ancient Farley Heath!

    “How many a group of that exiled troop
      Have here sung songs of home,
    Chanting aloud to a wondering crowd
      The glories of old Rome! 
    Or lying at length have basked their strength
      Amid this heather and gorse,
    Or down by the well in the larch-grown dell
      Water’d the black war-horse!

    “Look, look! my day-dream right ready would seem
      The past with the present to join,—­
    For see!  I have found in this rare ground
      An eloquent green old coin,
    With turquoise rust on its Emperor’s bust—­
      Some Caesar, august lord,
    And the legend terse, and the classic reverse,
      ‘Victory, valour’s reward!’