Nodding to me, to you, to others,
As if all sweethearts were, or brothers!
Right was old Weller about widows,
Whether you meet them in the meadows
At picnics, or when from the Bar
One beams on you like evening's star.
But if you doubt it, take this journey,
Or send me here as your Attorney;
For here there is such evidence
As must convince the dullest sense.
Another tankard of the same,
Fair Mistress! If you change your name, As I'm disposed to think you will,
It will be hard your place to fill.
One more segar-kind thanks to you, 'Twill soothe me on my way-Adieu !
ONCE more on Cornwall's heath I spring, I fly, like curlew on the wing,
And now I feel the Western gale,
And now towards me bounds the Sea!
Hail to thee, glorious Ocean, hail!
With all thy white-plumed chivalry,
Charging for aye the embattled shores.
Hark how the din of combat roars!
Who wins or loses, Sea or Land?
If you stood ages on yon strand,
You'd have some ages more to stay
Before you learnt who gain'd the day.
At times the billows have the best,
Riding far inland with proud crest;
But suddenly they turn, and back
To their old plains pursue their track,
Or fling up mounds of sand, which prove
Barriers the waves themselves can't move.
And then the Shore gains on the Deep,
But not much faster than snails creep :
Far as our knowledge yet extends,
The doubtful conflict never ends.
But now from that grand scene I turn
Southward, and wade through rustling fern,
But further from the gorse I hold,
Whose spears are hid with shields of gold.
Then fast I pace the lonely Moor,
And reach Dozmere's unfathom'd pool,
Where once the giant used to roar,
Tregeagle hight, like frantic bull,
What time the horseflies lance his skin :
Doom'd nightly, for his former sin
In seizing lands he should not take,
With a holed shell to empt the lake ;
But, anger'd at his hopeless task,
He would ere dawn his wrath uncask,
And yell till rocks like sheep were scatter'd,
And down the glens the boulders clatter'd.
Then the Arch Fiend, who ne'er doth sleep,
From craggy Caradon would leap,
And chase the giant round the swamp ;
Whence, by the North Star's trembling lamp,
With his long limbs Tregeagle strode
Towards Roche, familiar with the road,
Nor paused, nor ceased to roar, until
He grasp'd the lofty Chapel's sill,
And, thrusting in his grisly head,
Mutter'd his prayers—then went to bed.
Next to Saint Neot's vacant cell I bent my steps, and found the Well In whose pure spring in his far day Three speckled trout did always play, And to that most abstemious priest Supplied a never-failing feast,
If for each meal he took but one;
If he took more he would get none.
Such was the Angel's plain condition,
And the Saint kept it with precision.
The Saint fell sick, and his kind cook
Two fishes from the fountain took,
And one he boil'd, and in the pan
He fried the other, thoughtful man ;
And fondly fancied that he might
Tempt the Saint's squeamish appetite,
Deeming his art, as some think still,
More curative than leech's skill.
The trout with butter and a ladle
Were brought, like two babes in a cradle :
The Saint, who only look'd for one,
Cried-'Where didst get two trout, my son,
And why boil one, and t'other fry?'
The exulting cook made prompt reply-
'I dress'd them so, most reverend sire,
In pot and pan by the same fire,
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