Are checker'd o'er with foxglove's purple bloom,
Or graceful fern, or snakehood's curling sheath,
Or the wild strawberry's crimson peeping through.
There, where it joins the far-outstretching heath,
A lengthen'd nook presents its glassy slope,
A couch with nature's velvet verdure clad,
Trimm'd by the straggling sheep, and ever spread
To rest the weary wanderer on his way.
There, oft the ashes of the camp-fire lie,
Marking the gipsy's chosen place of rest.
Black roots of half-charr'd furze, and capons' bones--
Relic of spoils from distant farmers' coop--
Point to the revels of preceding night.
And fancy pictures forth the swarthy group,
Their dark eyes flashing in the ruddy glare;
While laughter, louder after long constraint,
From every jocund face is pealing round.

His "Summer" is a simple unaffected scene, such as may be met with any
where, if you have but "eyes to see:" and pretty much like it, but
inferior--for if it be not more common in subject, it is in treatment--
is the "Old Farm-House," from that delighting and most natural painter
with her pen, Miss Mitford. Very exquisite in his "Moonlight"--so true,
with all the quivering and blending light of nature, where all things
are at once lucid and in shade--as Virgil happily expresses it, "luce
sub incertâ linae." Sweet, too, and in the deep solemn repose of
religious eve, is the "Village Church"--from lines by Rogers. He is not
so happy in his "Smithy;" neither is the scene of interest nor the
effect pleasing. But he makes up for all by his "Outward Bound." The
home is left in the calmest, stillest of days; though the "outward