ired),
Which seemed as if put _for_ them--so precisely
Was it the very thing that they desired;
They were (or should have been) intensely tired,
But luckily they had not far to go,
A lot of pleasant matters had transpired,
And all had cracked their lively joke or so;
But now the day was o'er, the sun was getting low.

LXII.

Behind the cliff they wished to see him fall,
And therefore with that object did they wait,
There was no need to hurry home at all,
And they could walk it well by half-past eight,
And surely that was not so very late.
They each detached a portion of the wood,
For Dora took much pains to demonstrate,
It was most necessary that they should
(For a memento be it clearly understood).

LXIII.

There can be nothing dearer that I know
(When thus I speak of course I mean--_to me_)
Than wand'ring slowly when the tide is low,
Alone and silent by the gentle sea;
Each winding cranny of the rock may be
Enjoyment's wealth. There, is a world of thought,
Of joys unbounded for a heart as free,
A universe of life if only sought;
Each breath, each dreaming ripple is with music fraught.

LXIV.

Give me the ocean: let me hear its roll,
For ever let me wander by its side,
There is a voice that murmurs to the soul,
A strength which thunders in its mighty tide:
There let me but my lonely footsteps guide,
Or hasten to some far neglected glen,
Wherein myself for ever I can hide,
And rest a stranger to the ways of men,
And find a refuge dear beyond all human ken.

LXV.

There let me be, nor friend nor kinsman near,
For earthly friends and kinsmen--what are they?
There let me unbefriended drop a tear
And spend in solitude life's little day,
Where strange, strange voices all--all pass away
And mingle with the voices that have been,
There in those stilly valleys let me stray,
Where all is soundless, all is fair and green,
And peace, that holy peace, surrounds each smiling scene.

LXVI.

Within me is a craving, and for what?
A lingering longing, dark and ill-defined,
A something wanting, but I know it not,
A missing link it is not mine to find,
A flaming fire that scorches up the mind
And goads me ever onward--onward where?
I pray--I gasp for light--for I am blind,
The light that never, never will be there;
What can that something be my spirit may not share?

LXVII.

Oh let me be, for mine is Nature's praise;
I leave the world for those it doth invite,
For those who are untaught in N