Or on barbaric plains afar, Where, under Asia's fevering ray, The long lines of imperial war O'er Tigris passed, and with dismay In fanged and iron deserts found Embattled Persia closing round, And 'mid their eagles watched on high The vultures gathering for a feast, Till, from the quivers of the sky, The gorgeous star-flight of the East Flamed, and the bow of darkness bent O'er Julian dying in his tent. Between Farley Heath and Chilworth Station, which is the chosen end of the walk from Cranleigh, is Blackheath, well named. In winter the flowerless heather darkens the whole moorland; and through it the roads, the rough roads the Roman legionaries knew well, run ribands of white sand. [Illustration: _Chertsey._] CHAPTER XVI CHERTSEY Through the hayfields.--The Abbey.--John de Rutherwyk.--Cowley in his garden.--Bill Sikes at Chertsey.--The curfew.--A duel of hearts.--The Chertsey legend.--St. Anne's Hill.--Digging for treasure.--St. Paul's like a mushroom.--Charles James Fox.--Sunshine and turnips.--Triumphant rooks. Chertsey might well be taken as the centre from which to explore north-west Surrey, but it is less generally convenient as regards the railway than Weybridge, which allows exploration north, east, south and west, whereas Chertsey lies on a branch line. Besides, there is the walk from Weybridge to Chertsey to be taken, and there are few more delightful near the Surrey Thames. The high road from the bridge over the Wey runs between double ribands of water; on one side lies the sunny, slow canal, edged with iris and forget-me-nots, and banked up higher than the road; on the other, a shady stream, dun and bleak-haunted. Before the road turns into Addlestone there is a field-path, breaking off at right angles, which leads to a wooden bridge crossing the clear, brown little Bourne, and beyond the bridge lies Chertsey Mead, one huge hayfield, bounded on the left by wooded slopes, on the right by the Thames itself. Two or three narrow paths intersect the level of waving grass; the turf underfoot is as springy as peat, and the standing crop scents the June wind, rich with daisies and clover. Beyond Chertsey before you lies St. Anne's Hill, dark and incumbent over the town; but you do not guess that the Thames edges that shining hayfield until you catch sight of a boat-sail, leisurely dipping and nodding under the Lombardy poplars that line the stream. The path leaves the meadow close to Chertsey Bridge, graceful with seven stone arches.