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Sleep, breathing love and trust against her lip: I go to-night: I come to-morrow morn.
"I go, but I return: I would I were The pilot of the darkness and the dream. Sleep, Ellen Aubrey, love, and dream of me."
So sang we each to either, Francis Hale, The farmer's son who lived across the bay, My friend; and I, that having wherewithal, And in the fallow leisure of my life, Did what I would; but ere the night we rose And sauntered home beneath a moon, that, just In crescent, dimly rained about the leaf Twilights of airy silver, till we reached The limit of the hills; and as we sank From rock to rock upon the glooming quay, The town was hushed beneath us: lower down The bay was oily-calm; the harbor-buoy With one green sparkle ever and anon Dipt by itself, and we were glad at heart.
WALKING TO THE MAIL.
John. I 'm glad I walked. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike?
John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock.
John. What is it now? James. A quarter to.
John. Whose house is that I see Beyond the watermills?
James. Sir Edward Head's:
James. No sir, he,
He lost the sense that handles daily life —
John. And whither?
James. Nay, who knows? he's here and there But let him go; his devil goes with him, As well as with his tenant, Jocky Dawes,
John. What's that?
James. You saw the man but yesterday: He picked the pebble from your horse's foot. His house was haunted by a jolly ghost, That rummaged like a rat. No servant staid: The farmer vext packs up his beds and chairs, And all his household stuff; and with his boy Betwixt his knees, his wife upon the tilt, Sets forth, and meets a friend who hails him, "What! You 're flitting!" "Yes, we 're flitting," says the ghost, (For they had packed the thing among the beds.) "0 well," says he, "you flitting with us too — Jack, turn the horses' heads and home again."
John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard.
James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs.
John. O yet but I remember, ten years back — 'T is now at least ten years — and then she was — You could not light upon a sweeter thing:A body slight and round, and like a pear
James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved
John. But I had heard it was this bill that past,