Early he rose, and looked with many a sigh On the red light that filled the eastern sky; Oft had he stood before, alert and gay, To hail the glories of the new-born day; But now dejected, languid, listless, low, He saw the wind upon the water blow, And the cold stream curled onward as the gale From the pine-hill blew harshly down the vale; On the right side the youth a wood surveyed, With all its dark intensity of shade; Where the rough wind alone was heard to move In this, the pause of nature and of love When now the young are reared, and when the old, Lost to the tie, grow negligent and cold: Far to the left he saw the huts of men, Half hid in mist that hung upon the fen: Before him swallows gathering for the sea, Took their short flights and twittered o'er the lea; And near the bean-sheaf stood, the harvest done, And slowly blackened in the sickly sun; All these were sad in nature, or they took Sadness from him, the likeness of his look And of his mind--he pondered for a while, Then met his Fanny with a borrowed smile. It is good: it is extraordinarily good: it could not be better of its kind. It is as nearly poetry as anything that Crabbe ever did--but is it quite? If it is (and I am not careful to deny it) the reason, as it seems to me, is that the verbal and rhythmical music here, with its special effect of "transporting" of "making the common as if it were uncommon," is infinitely better than is usual with Crabbe, that in fact there is music as well as meaning. Hardly anywhere else, not even in the best passages of the story of Peter Grimes, shall we find such music; and in its absence it may be said of Crabbe much more truly than of Dryden (who carries the true if not the finest poetical undertone with him even into the rant of Almanzor and Maximin, into the interminable arguments of "Religio Laici" and "The Hind and the Panther") that he is a classic of our prose.