KENDAL. 53

To scape the snare ; but yet methinks t were sad For woman s timid love to unfold itself Within a tyrant s breast, trusting its peace To the dire thunderbolt.

And so farewell,

Last of the six that rashly spread their couch In the strong lion s den.

My talk with thee

Doth add new pleasure to our quiet stroll Amid the lowly train, who, free from thoughts Of wild ambition, hold their noiseless way.

Then toward the traveller s home, as twilight drew

Her dusky mantle o er the face of things,

We bent our steps, with many a gathered theme

For sweet discourse, till welcome evening brought

Refreshment and repose. To our fair board

The finny people of the Ken came up,

Tempting the palate in the varied forms

Of culinary art, while with the fruits

That ripen slow neath England s shaded skies

Were fresh-made cheeses from the creamy bowls,

Filled by the herds that ruminate all day,

In pastures richly green.

So, well content,

Beside the shaded lamp we lingering sate, And spoke of home, and of the Power who shields The weary traveller, and doth bid him sleep Secure neath foreign skies, cheering his dream With faces of his loved ones far away,

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