But it depends entirely upon individual associations and fancies
where one would wish to rest after life's fitful fever: and I have
hardly ever been more deeply impressed than by certain lines which
I cut out of an old newspaper when I was a boy, and which set out
a choice far different from that of The Minstrel. They are written
by Mr. Westwood, a true poet, though not known as he deserves to
be. Here they are:--

Not there, not there!
Not in that nook, that ye deem so fair;--
Little reck I of the blue bright sky,
And the stream that floweth so murmuringly,
And the bending boughs, and the breezy air--
Not there, good friends, not there!

In the city churchyard, where the grass
Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray
Of that self-same sun doth find its way
Through the heaped-up houses' serried mass--
Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,
And the clatter of wheels as they rush along--
Or the plash of the rain, or the wind's hoarse cry,
Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,
Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air--
Good friends, let it be there!

I am old, my friends--I am very old--
Fourscore and five--and bitter cold
Were that air on the hill-side far away;