" Which is the shire whose glory
Makes good your every claim ?
'Tis famed in song and story.
What need to breathe its name ?
Far, far beyond all other,
The beauties that adorn,
The shire you claim as mother,
The shire where you were born!"
Touchstone.
" The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush of the sea at flood,
Through inlet and creek and river, from dike to upland wood ;
The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawks rise and fall,
The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the dark coast wall."
J. G, Whittier,
Now bursts high up, the clouds among.
The lark's tumultuous joy in song.
Of limpid melody,
The entrancing music throbs and thrills
Through all my being, till it fills
My soul with ecstasy.
William Kettle.
There's a dream of a wild March morning
That often comes to me.
Of a little windy garden
By the tossing Northern Sea,
With its grass patch starr'd with daisies,
And its crocus blossoms gay,
And its daffodils atwinkle
'Along leaves all blown one way.
Augusta Hancock.
" What yearth or Sea, or Skies conteyne, what creatures in them be
My Mynde did seeke to knowe, my Soule the Heavens continually."
Inscription on the Tomb of Sir Thomas Smith, 1577, in the Church of St. Michael's,
Theydon Mount. Essex.
When Dr. Edward Jenner came up to London and discussed
with the famous John Hunter his hopes and fears respecting
the possibilities of vaccination, the characteristic reply of the
great anatomist was, "Don't think, Jenner, but try."