n the shrubberies is very great.

Blaize Castle is a fine building, and surrounded by noble woods. The
castle is a circle, flanked With three round towers.

I ought not to omit that we had on this trip the pleasure of being
accompanied by a gentleman from Bristol, whose taste and perfect
knowledge of the ground afforded us much gratification. I allude, to Mr.
Dix, author of "Pen and Ink Sketches," which formerly appeared in the
Boston Atlas. Mr. Dix was with us at Windsor Castle, and when he heard
from Weld French or George Vanderbilt that Robinson's birthday would
occur shortly, he noted it, and sent James the following pretty lines,
which reached him May 15th, in Paris. I think you will be pleased with
them.

TO JAMES A. ROBINSON.

When wandering neath old Windsor's towers
We laughed away the sunny hours,
You asked me for a simple rhyme;
So now accept this birthday chime.
No poet I--the "gift divine"
Ne'er was, and never will be, mine;
But take these couplets, which impart
The anxious wishes of my heart,
In place of more aspiring lay,
To greet you on your natal day.

Boy of that country of the brave,
Beyond the Atlantic's western wave,
I, dweller in the motherland,
A welcome give with heart and hand;
And on your birthday breathe a prayer
That you may every blessing share;
That your world journey may be blest
With all that may prepare you best
For the approaching eve of age--
The end of mortal pilgrimage.

Upon your brow of youthful bloom
I would not cast a shade of gloom;
Yet did I say that life will ever
Flow onward like a placid river,
With only sunshine on its breast,
That ne'er 'twill be by storms distressed,
I should but flatter to deceive,
And but a web of falsehood weave.
Yet, checkered though life's path may seem,
Life's pleasures are not _all_ a dream.

What shall I wish you? I would fain
That earthly greatness you may gain;
But if that guerdon is not sent,
Be with some humble lot content;
And let this truth be understood--
Few can be great, _all may_ be good.
Power, pomp, ambition, envy, pride,
Wrecked barks adown life's stream may glide,
Ruined by some fierce passion throe,
E'er, reckless, o'er Time's brink they go;
But if fair virtue grasps the helm,
Nor storm nor wave can overwhelm.

That many happy years be