ea.

And on many a hasty grave, in the shot-riddled mud of Flanders, or on
the barren beaches of Gallipoli or the ruined lands of Babylon, might
that poem of Sir Henry Newbolt's which he calls "April on Waggon Hill"
be set up as a fitting epitaph:

"Lad, and can you rest now,
There beneath your hill?
Your hands are on your breast now,
But is your heart so still?
'Twas the right death to die, lad,
A gift without regret,
But unless truth's a lie, lad,
You dream of Devon yet.

"Ay, ay, the year's awaking,
The fire's among the ling,
The beechen hedge is breaking,
The curlew's on the wing;
Primroses are out, lad,
On the high banks of Lee,
And the sun stirs the trout, lad,
From Brendon to the sea.

"I know what's in your heart, lad--
The mare he used to hunt,
And her blue market-cart, lad,
With posies tied in front.
We miss them from the moor road,
They're getting old to roam,
The road they're on's a sure road
And nearer, lad, to home.

"Your name, the name they cherish?
'Twill fade, lad, 'tis true:
But stone and all may perish
With little loss to you.
While fame's fame you're Devon, lad,
The Glory of the West;
Till the roll's called in heaven, lad,
You may well take your rest."

CHAPTER II

SOME LITERARY ASSOCIATIONS

From Barnstaple to Dunster, and from Tiverton to Lynton, this beautiful
piece of country is peculiarly rich in literary associations. Nor is
this to be wondered at when we consider the variety and the loveliness
of the scenery, the great open, heathery wastes of Exmoor, the
wind-swept cliffs and highlands, the fair and luxuriant valleys where
the pure bright waters of these hill-fed streams flow through a green
tunnel of overarching trees, making a fertile paradise of flower and
fern in their course. And the magnificent bold rocks and forelands of
the coast, the streams broken into feathery spray falling down the
precipitous face of the cliffs, creek and gully and cave, the
wave-washed golden sands of the bays, or the line of foam fretting ever
at the foot of these granite crags. And beyond is the sea; from every
hilltop the eye turns to it, in the sheltered orchards the air is salt
with it, the thunder of its great breakers on the coast can be heard
far inland, an undercurrent beneath the singing of birds and the hum of
bees; it is never far from the eyes or from the mind, blue as f