'I wrote an ode to my native river many years ago; here it is, sir:
"Romantic Dodder! in the murmur
Of thy swiftly flowing stream
I think I hear a soft, faint echo,
Like the music of a dream,
While wandering on thy verdant bank,
Where brilliant daisies richly growing,
All tell me truly how they love
To dwell where thou art flowing;
Far in the deep and sheltered glade,
Beneath the bright laburnum flower
That hides the lonely student's cell,
And sweetly shadows maiden's bower;
Or winding through the gardens fair,
Where children, romping, playing, skipping,
In summer robes so gaily dressed,
With tiny hands thy water sipping.
Now gliding by the meadow's marge,
With birds' unceasing twitter,
Heardest thou the mower's jest
So well repaid by milkmaid's titter?
Onward by the village green,
The gray-stone bridge thy ripples spanning;
Faster by the noisy mill,
Thy face the gentle breezes fanning;
Gushing o'er the stony dam,
From point to point with mimic thunder,
Sparkling in thy snowy spray,
While infant barks are dashed asunder;
Roam thou to thy ocean home,
No longer to mine eyes displaying
The rosy hues of years gone by,
When on thy dear and green bank straying.
And still, O Dodder! still thou art
The loveliest queen of rivers flowing."'
'Humph! ha! thank you,' said the Doctor. 'Where is that "Dodder" which you are trying to make famous?'
'It is a beautiful little river, sir, which falls into the Liffey, near Dublin, my native city.'
Doctor Julius now had recourse to his pipe. It seemed to be his only solace in that gloomy place, where a sunbeam never penetrated, where a sympathetic pressure of the hand of fellowship was never felt. He had spoken about going
