THE SOLITARY REAPER. BEHOLD her, single in the field, No nightingale did ever chant No sweeter voice was ever heard Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang LINES WRITTEN IN MARCH, While resting on the bridge at the foot of Brother's Water. THE cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun ; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon : There's joy in the fountains; Blue sky prevailing ; The rain is over and gone! GIPSIES. YET are they here-the same unbroken knot Men, women, children, yea, the frame Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I Have been a traveller under open sky, Much witnessing of change and cheer Yet as I left I find them here! The weary sun betook himself to rest, The glorious path on which he trod. The silent heavens have goings-on ; The stars have tasks-but these have none ! BEGGARS. SHE had a tall man's height, or more; Descending with a graceful flow, And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow. Her skin was of Egyptian brown; To head those ancient Amazonian files : Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Such woes I knew could never be ; And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature I left her and pursued my way; The taller followed with his hat in hand, Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land. |