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 And the river running under; and across it, from the rowans, A brown partridge whirring near us, till we felt the air it bore,—

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made by Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various, of our own; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser—or the subtle inter-flowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets-—here's the book—the leaf is folded down!—

Or at times a modern volume,—Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, Hewitt's ballad-dew, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,— Or from Browning some "Pomegranate," which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity!—