And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken As by some spell divine-- Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell?-- Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell! Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,-- This spray of Western pine! * * * * * THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK PRINTED BY EDWIN GRABHORN FOR JOHN HOWELL. TITLE PAGE AND DECORATIONS BY JOSEPH SINEL. THIS IS COPY NO. [Handwritten: 37] End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dickens in Camp, by Bret Harte