But let's forget past joys and loves
On such gay spring-time morns as these:
I've heard the huntsman's rousing horn
Come cheerly ringing through these trees,
And seen gay scarlet 'tween the oaks
Gleam bravely forth, as on I rode
To Dinton coverts, proud and fond
Of the black mare that I bestrode.

As when wind, rain, and snow blow by
In fierce procession's stormy hurry,
Across some soft blue peep of sky,
Where little rippling white clouds scurry,
The rainbow blossoms green and red,
With just a violet tinge below,
So hopes spring once more in my mind,
As through dead frosts the blossoms blow.

Since I was here, in torrid lands
I've wrestled with the hungry lion,
Spent nights on rafts, trod Alpine snows,
And gazed from Olivet on Zion.
I've thought of the old wood in climes
Shot through with the sun's burning lances;
I've dreamt of it a score of times
In desert dreams and tropic trances.

And here I am again returned,
As the hare wounded seeks the lair
From whence it started at the dawn.—
Once more I breathe the balmy air
Of the fir woodlands; here I'll dwell
Till the voice summon me away,
And the great darkness fall on me,
And hide me from the outer day.

AN OLD COUNTY TOWN.

THERE are days in the late summer and early
autumn when, from the extreme purity and
clearness of the atmosphere, the common shapes
of earth seem exalted and transfigured. The
reposing sunshine invests all things with its own
glory; the distance dies away into a bright
ethereal vision; even near objects have a touch
of mystery and unwonted loveliness; and the
heavens, in their blue immensity, appear at once
profounder and less far. The topmost branches
and leaves of the trees float in the intensely
luminous air, like finest pencillings against the
sky. The edges of houses and solid bodies are
softened, liquefied, rounded, relieved of everything
harsh and incongruous by the influence of
some presiding concord. We seem to be gifted
with a new eyesight, and to look into the hearts of
things. Numberless beauties of form and colour,
of contrast and sympathy, which we never
perceive on ordinary occasions, unfold themselves, as
it were, from some cloudy wrapping, and lie before
us. The ancient communion of man with nature
is restored, as in the innocent times. The
Hamadryads come to us from the old oaks, and Pan
from the woody uplands. We do not observe all
this, for observation implies effort, will, and
conscious determination. We feel it, by means
of an intuitive sense. In such moods of the
mind, fostered by such conditions of the
atmosphere, it may almost be said that we see the
harmony of the universe. We recognise the grace
and fitness of the most trival occurrences and
ways of nature; and find a new delight even in
the falling of a leaf from a tree, or the rapid
movements of the birds across the air.

On a day such as this, though not with all
these thoughts taking exact expression in their
minds, a party of four entered the county
town of Sussex. A brief railway journey had
led from the modern refinements of Brighton to
the antiquities of Lewes, and had done so by a
pleasant route over Downs and across the valley
of the Ouse, within sight of ancient ruins,
bright meadows, and steep hills. The town is
sealed in a very amphitheatre of hills, and is
connected by the river with the port of
Newhaven, seven or eight miles distant on the
English Channel. That port, by the way, seems
destined to play a more conspicuous part in the
future than it has done in the past. Its
prosperity has of late years steadily increased. It
is admitted to be the best tidal harbour between
Portsmouth and the Downs; and a local writer
points out that "the great level extending from
it to Lewes might be converted into one vast
basin, wherein all the royal navies of Europe
might safely ride at anchor," thus fulfilling the
destiny which some have marked out for Lewes,
of becoming "the Liverpool of the South."
But with these speculations we have nothing to
do beyond thus briefly recording them.

We make our way up from the railway station,
and find ourselves in a suburb of the town. The
hilly nature of the ground is soon manifest.
Here is a road overlooking a breadth of basking
meadow-land on one side, and on the other
bordered by a great bank embowered in noble
old trees, where the pathway glimmers obscurely
through the leaves far above the heads of those
who walk or drive along the road, and where
fragments of the ancient town wall are yet to be
seen. This bank is the first terrace of the up-
lands on which Lewes is built; and higher still,
out of sight among the trees, is the High-street.
Owing to the irregularity of the ground,
and the thickness of the foliage, we are
sometimes puzzled to say how the snug villas and
cottages are approached which we see starting
out every here and there from woody knolls and
slopes; but all is so quaint and pretty that we
are content to remain in ignorance. Here, to
our right, is a narrow lane, with red-tiled roofs
and red-brick pavement, so steep that we have
to pause occasionally and take breath, though
down this precipitous thoroughfare George the
Fourth, when Prince of Wales, drove a carriage
and four, in order to avoid a longer and safer
route. Here are other abrupt and narrow paths,
winding between old garden walls of flint,
overgrown with weeds and grass. Here are the
broad warm-tinted comfortable old country
houses, to which we turn with an instinctive
fondness, as to something peaceful and seductive.
And here at last is the High-street, with
very large roofs and very little shop-fronts, a
very irregular outline, a very prevalent hue of
glowing red and brown and creamy white, and a
very general appearance of being cosily asleep in
the hot sunshine, with no intention whatever of
waking in a hurry. Indeed, why should it awake?