And she hath smiles to earth unknown; Smiles, that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise; That come and go with endless play, And ever, as they pass away, Are hidden in her eyes.
She loves her fire, her cottage home; Yet o'er the moorland will she roam In weather rough and bleak;
And, when against the wind she strains, Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains That sparkle on her cheek.
Take all that's mine 'beneath the moon,'
If I with her but half a noon
May sit beneath the walls
Of some old cave, or mossy nook, When up she winds along the brook, To hunt the waterfalls.
SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, and image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly plann'd, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.
IT seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out), One of those heavenly days which cannot die; When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,* With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps Towards the distant woods, a figure quaint, Trick'd out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal dame.
Motley accoutrement - of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth, More ragged than need was. Among the woods, And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way, Until at length, I came to one dear nook
* The house in which I was boarded during the time I was at school.
Unvisited, where not a broken bough
Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation, but the hazels rose
Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene! A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed
The banquet,—or beneath the trees I sat Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been bless'd With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons reappear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever,- and I saw the sparkling foam, And with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady trees, Lay round me, scatter'd like a flock of sheep, I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose,
And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turn'd away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky. Then, dearest maiden ! move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.
STAY near me — do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight!
Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy!
Float near me; do not yet depart ! Dead times revive in thee:
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art ! A solemn image to my heart, My father's family!
Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I
Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush
Upon the prey:
I follow'd on from brake to bush ;
But she, God love her! fear'd to brush The dust from off its wings.
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky :
So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ;
So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!
The child is father of the man ;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
From the conclusion of a Poem, composed upon leaving School.
DEAR native regions, I foretell, From what I feel at this farewell, That wheresoe'er my steps shall tend, And whensoe'er my course shall end, If in that hour a single tie Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view, The longing look, alone on you.
Thus, when the sun, prepared for rest, Hath gain'd the precincts of the west, Though his departing radiance fail To illuminate the hollow vale, A lingering light he fondly throws On the dear hills where first he rose.
OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I cross'd the wild, I chanced to see at break of day, The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
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