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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
The Shark at savage prey,—the Hawk at pounce,—
The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,
Ravening a Worm,—Away, ye horrid moods!
Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well.
You know I'd sooner be a clapping Bell
To some Kamchatsan Missionary Church,
Than with these horrid moods be left in lurch.
WRITTEN IN DEVONSHIRE.
I.
Here all the summer I could stay,
For there's a Bishop's Teign,
And King's Teign,
And Coomb at the clear Teign's head;
Where, close by the stream.
You may have your cream,
All spread upon barley bread.
II.
There's Arch Brook,
And there's Larch Brook,—
Both turning many a mill;
And cooling the drouth
Of the salmon's mouth,
And fattening his silver gill.
III.
There's a wild wood,
A mild hood,
