he parlour gay;
The picture of a little mountain stream
Called Rose's admiration into play;
And, basking in the sun's delightful ray,
A favourite kitten purred with sleepy air,
The polished flags were spotless as the day,
And groups of flowering plants stood here and there,
And industry was most apparent everywhere.

XLIV.

Our ladies three had had their little chat,
Had likewise done the good they had to do,
Moreover had admired and stroked the cat,
And then they thought 'twas time that they withdrew;
The widow was more thankful than they knew,
And twenty times expressed her firm conviction
They were disguised archangels (what think you?)
Then twenty times pronounced her benediction,
Hoping they'd never live to suffer _her_ affliction.

XLV.

Her little grandchild courtesied at the gate,
Showed them the way and courtesied once again,
They sauntered on at just their former rate
And chattered in their usual lively strain;
Passing along an elevated plain
They paused to look around them for the scene
Delighted them enormously and fain
Would they have been to rest mid-way between,
But forward gaily pressed o'er silent tracts of green.

XLVI.

The view was bounded on their right by hills,
Those gentle hills that border on the sea,
Ah! as I write a thought my bosom stills,
That thought, Oh Berwick, is the thought of thee!
How kind, how tranquil were thine hours to me,
Those hours amongst thy silent valleys cast,
O moments gone, come back and let me be
Enfolded in the visions of the Past,
While other hours and days and years are fleeting fast!

XLVII.

Anon the summit of the cliff they gained,
Above the vast expanse the eye is bent,
Where Beauty's finger wanders unrestrained
With its fantastical embellishment;
The mind is riveted, the gaze is spent
Where lavish Nature pours her richest spoil,
The tongue is voiceless with bewilderment,
Far, far below the ocean's ceaseless toil
Makes bosoms inly shudder and all eyes recoil.

XLVIII.

Our little thoughts are staggered at the scene,
That splendour so unspeakably intense,
And dazzled by its brilliancy of sheen,
The senses reel with its magnificence;
Below the surgy yeast was boiling, whence
Rose on the summer air its restless roar,
It smote the broken cliff's bold battlements,
Unmoted like the warriors of yore,
And plunged upon the moss-clad boulders of the shore.

XLIX.

The feathery clouds moved slowly through the sky,
The coast-line