But resting through life on the bosom of love,
Will remember the Woodland Hallo.

[Illustration: a woman with a basket walking past a cottage]




BARNHAM WATER

Fresh from the Hall of Bounty sprung,[1]
With glowing heart and ardent eye,
With song and rhyme upon my tongue,
And fairy visions dancing by,
The mid-day sun in all his pow'r
The backward valley painted gay;
Mine was a road without a flower,
Where one small streamlet cross'd the way.

[Footnote 1: On a sultry afternoon, late in the summer of 1802,
Euston-Hall lay in my way to Thetford, which place I did not reach until
the evening, on a visit to my sister: the lines lose much of their
interest except they could be read on the spot, or at least at a
coresponding season of the year.]

What was it rous'd my soul to love?
What made the simple brook so dear?
It glided like the weary dove,
And never brook seem'd half so clear.
Cool pass'd the current o'er my feet,