If we would see the fruits of charity. 
  Look at that village group, and paint the scene. 
  Surrounded by a clear and silent stream,
  Where the swift trout shoots from the sudden ray,
  A rural mansion, on the level lawn,
  Uplifts its ancient gables, whose slant shade
  Is drawn, as with a line, from roof to porch,
  Whilst all the rest is sunshine.  O’er the trees
  In front, the village-church, with pinnacles,
  And light grey tow’r, appears, while to the right
  An amphitheatre of oaks extends
  Its sweep, till, more abrupt, a wooded knoll,
  Where once a castle frown’d, closes the scene. 
  And see, an infant troop, with flags and drum,
  Are marching o’er that bridge, beneath the woods,
  On—­to the table spread upon the lawn,
  Raising their little hands when grace is said;
  Whilst she, who taught them to lift up their hearts
  In prayer, and to “remember, in their youth,”
  God, “their Creator,”—­mistress of the scene,
  (Whom I remember once, as young,) looks on,
  Blessing them in the silence of her heart.

  And, children, now rejoice,—­
  Now—­for the holidays of life are few;
  Nor let the rustic minstrel tune, in vain,
  The crack’d church-viol, resonant to-day,
  Of mirth, though humble!  Let the fiddle scrape
  Its merriment, and let the joyous group
  Dance, in a round, for soon the ills of life
  Will come!  Enough, if one day in the year,
  If one brief day, of this brief life, be given
  To mirth as innocent as yours!

Then we have an “aged widow” reading “GOD’S own Word” at her cottage-door, with her daughter kneeling beside her—­a sketch from those halcyon days, when, in the beautiful allegory of Scripture, “every man sat under his own fig-tree.”  This is followed by the “Elysian Tempe of Stourhead,” the seat of Sir Richard Colt Hoare, to whose talents and benevolence Mr. Bowles pays a merited tribute.  Longleat, the residence of the Bishop of Bath and Wells, succeeds; and Marston, the abode of the Rev. Mr. Skurray, a friend of the author from his “youthful days,” introduces the following beautiful descriptive snatch:—­

    And witness thou,
  Marston, the seat of my kind, honour’d friend—­
  My kind and honour’d friend, from youthful days. 
  Then wand’ring on the banks of Rhine, we saw
  Cities and spires, beneath the mountains blue,
  Gleaming; or vineyards creep from rock to rock;
  Or unknown castles hang, as if in clouds;
  Or heard the roaring of the cataract. 
  Far off,[5] beneath the dark defile or gloom
  Of ancient forests—­till behold, in light,
  Foaming and flashing, with enormous sweep,
  Through the rent rocks—­where, o’er the mist of spray,
  The rainbow, like a fairy in her bow’r,
  Is sleeping while it roars—­that volume vast,
  White, and with thunder’s deaf’ning roar, comes down.