Baronial splendor decks yon gilded halls, And here in niches cold are armed knights,
And costly paintings on the lofty walls, And every charm that luxury delights,
And ample parks, and velvet lawns, where stray
The ruminating herd, or the white lambkins play.
But yet the flowers, that with their thousand eyes Look timid up and nurse their infant gem,
To me are dearer than the gorgeous dome, Or fretted arch, that overshadows them.
Methought their soft lips ask, all bright with dew,
The welfare of their friends, that in my country grew.
Yes, in my simple garden, far away
Beyond the ocean waves, that toss and roll,
Your gentle kindred drink the healthful ray, Heaven s holy voice within their secret soul,
And the same words they speak, so pure and free,
Unto my loved ones there, that here ye say to me.
Chester, on the borders of the principality of Wales, exhibits peculiar features to an American eye. Its dwellings, with high, pointed roofs, and carved gables turned towards the street, throw a projecting story over the sidewalks, so that passengers move along as if in covered vestibules. This has an odd effect, for at first view the people in the streets seem to be in the houses, and those who are in the houses, in the streets. It