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So we were left galloping, Ioris and.I,
“How they'll greet us !”—and all in a moment his roan
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is friends flocking round,
Although we have cause to hope that the good steed recovered, yet his trial of speed and strength is too painful to conclude with. I add a few lines from the “Englishman in Italy,” a long poem so
pulpy, so juicy, so full of bright colour and of rich detail, that it is just like a picture by Rubens. Selection is difficult-but I choose the passage in question because its exceeding truth was first pointed out to me by Mr. Ruskin.
But to-day not a boat reached Salerno,
So back to a man
Grape-harvest began :
Like blood the juice spins,
Till breathless he grins
To keep the grapes under,
In pours the fresh plunder
With basket on shoulder
Meanwhile see the grape-bunch they've brought you,
The rain-water slips
Which the wasp to your lips
Nay taste while awake
That peels flake by flake
Next sip this weak wine
From the thin green glass flask with its stopper
A leaf of the vine-
That leaves through its juice
and so on.
SIR PHILIP SYDNEY'S ARCADIA
ISAAC WALTON'S COMPLETE
DURING this warm summer, and above all during this dry burning harvest weather, which makes my poor little roadside cottage (the cottage which for that reason amongst others I am about to leave) so insupportable from glare, and heat, and dust in the fine season, I have the frequent, almost daily habit of sallying forth into the charming green lane,
grassy, turfy, shady lane of which I have before made mention, and of which I share the use and the enjoyment with the gipsies. Last summer I was able to walk thither, but in the winter I was visited by rheumatism and cannot walk so far without much heat and fatigue; so my
old pony-phaeton convey's me and my little maid, and my pet-dog Fanchon, and my little maid's needle-work of flounces and fineries, and my books and writing-case, as far
as the road leads, and sometimes a little farther; and we proceed to a certain green hillock under down-hanging elms, close shut in between a bend in the lane on our own side, and an amphitheatre of oak and ash and beech trees opposite ; where we have partly found and partly scooped out for ourselves a turfy seat and turfy table redolent of wild-thyme and a thousand fairy flowers, delicious in its coolness, its fragrance, and its repose.
Behind the thick hedge on the one hand stretch fresh water-meadows, where the clear brook wanders in strange meanders between clumps of alder-bushes and willow-pollards ; fringed by the blue forget-menot, the yellow loosestrife, the purple willow-herb, and the creamy tufts of the queen of the meadow; on the other hand we catch a glimpse over gates of large tracts of arable land, wheat, oat, clover, and bean fields, sloping upward to the sun; and hear, not too closely, the creaking waggon and the sharpening scythe, the whistle, the halloo, and the laugh, all that forms the pleasant sound of harvest labour. Just beyond the bend in the lane too, are two fires, belonging to two distinct encampments of gipsies ; and the children, dogs, and donkeys of these wandering tribes are nearly the only living things that come into sight, exciting Fanchon now to pretty defiance, now to prettier fear.
This is my constant resort on summer afternoons; and there I have the habit of remaining engaged