Fount of a rushing river! wild flowers wreathe The home where thy first waters sunlight claim; The lark sits hushed beside thee while I breathe, Sweet Tamar spring! the music of thy name. On through thy goodly channel, on! to the sea! Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough; But never more with footstep pure and free, Or face so meek with happiness as now. Fair is the future scenery of thy days, Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride: Depths that give back the soft-eyed violet’s gaze, Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide. ------- Yet false the vision, and untrue the dream, That lures thee from thy native wilds to stray: A thousand griefs will mingle with thy stream, Unnumbered hearts will sigh these waves away. Scenes fierce with men, thy seaward current laves; Harsh multitudes will throng thy gentle brink; Back with the grieving concourse of thy waves, Home to the waters of thy childhood, shrink. Thou heedest not! thy dream is of the shore, Thy heart is quick with life; on! to the sea! How will the voice of thy far streams implore Again amid these peaceful weeds to be! My soul! my soul! a happier choice be thine,— Thine the hushed valley and the lonely sod; False dream, far vision, hollow hope, resign, Fast by our Tamar spring, alone with God! In the parish of Morwenstow is one very interesting old house, Tonacombe, or, as it was originally called, Tidnacombe. It belonged originally to the Jourdains, passed to the Kempthornes, the Waddons, and from thence to the Martyns. The present proprietor is the Rev. W. Waddon Martyn, rector of Lifton. It is an ancient mansion of the sixteenth century, quite perfect and untouched, very small and plain, but in its way a gem, and well deserving a visit. It is low, crouching to the ground like the trees of the district, as for shelter, or as a ptarmigan cowering from the hawk, with wings spread over her young. A low gate, with porter’s lodge at the side, leads into a small yard, into which look the windows of the hall. The hall goes to the roof with open timbers; it is small—thirty feet long—but perfect in its way, with minstrel’s gallery, large open fireplace with andirons, and adorned with antlers, old weapons and banners bearing the arms of the Jourdains, Kempthornes, Waddons and Martyns. The hall gives access to a dark panelled parlour, with peculiar and handsome brass andirons in the old fireplace, looking out through a latticed window into the old walled garden, or Paradise.