the heart of the waters: within the circle of the rays lay the shadow of the mountains, intermingled with the reflex of the stars: and a warm delicious breeze wandered o'er the waves, and to the poetic ear, seemed to murmur of the Faries and Naiades, enshrined within the coral solitudes of that beauteous element. Any one who is familiar with lakes, must join with me in my expressions of delight whilst passing along those banks; there is no noise save the strange harmony of the ripples rising and falling; all the world around seems still and hushed in deep sleep-whilst Nature alone is awake, and from her most secret solitude seems to utter forth praises and acclamations, to the great God who is its maker. Half the night in my sleep I fancied I heard the same murmur renewed-and dreamed of Windermere-and lovers-and the glorious heyday of youth-and hope deferred that maketh the heart sickand moonshine-and all sorts of absurdities. In the morning I arose at four, journeyed forth along the lake side, and composed the concluding address in "England" to Margaret W. at the end of my poem, before nine; and certainly it was pleasant to wander there and think of such things-and the lake itself reposed quietly, like a sleeping child in the embrace of Titan fathers-a sheet of silver among the golden mists of the morning. This terminates our hasty sketch of Wales, the cradle of ancient liberty, the most romantic and picturesque country in the world. Years have elapsed since I wan dered among its noble mountains and lovely vales, but the picture of all its glories yet remains bright within. my heart of hearts, never to be erased but by the hand of death. Twenty-one years had scarcely past over my head when I visited that enchanted land.-Since then what fierce struggles, what resolute endeavours have been mine, yet in the midst of the gloomiest hours of sorrow, and sickness, and despair, how sweetly did Bala return with all its murmuring waters,-how majestically Cader Idris, and Snowdon, and the mountains of Wales stood forth revealed in memory. Alas, that wealth is rarely distributed except to niggards and fools,-how many glorious epics, instinct with genuine truth from Nature's loveliest and holiest springs, might else have been sanctified to Apollo "How many are the Poets, ne'er have penn'd Their Inspirations; and perchance the best." CLEVELAND SKETCHES. LINES, Commemorative of a Pic Nic Party at Eston Nab and Wilton Castle, June, 1844. Hasten to the feast of joy, Far from every care's annoy! Why should tear-drops dim the eye? Why should sorrow heave a sigh? Honeysuckles deck each bower, Fragrance breathes from every flower : Earth and sky unite to say "Blessed be your holiday!" Youths and maidens weave a crown, |