MATLOCK. 179

That fringe his banks to shut him from her smile, And higher as her queenly car ascends, Outspreads a broader bosom to her beam. Most beautiful ! It fits not speech like mine, Soul-stirring scene, to set thy features forth In their true light. I have no hues that reach Glories like thine. The watery tint alone That moisteneth in the eye, doth tell of thee.

Yet should I ever, from my distant home Tempted to roam, dare the wild deep once more For Albion s sake, I d watch two summer-moons Waxing and waning o er the purple peaks Of Derbyshire, and from the sounding brass And tinkling cymbal of absorbing care Or vanity, and from the thunder-gong "Which the great world doth strike, delighted hide In quiet Matlock, lulled by Nature s charms, And hourly gleaning what she saith of God.

�� �