And she hath smiles to earth unknown; She loves her fire, her cottage-home; And, when against the wind she strains, Take all that's mine 'beneath the moon,' May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, To hunt the waterfalls. "STRANGE FITS OF PASSION I HAVE KNOWN." STRANGE fits of passion I have known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell. When she I loved was strong and gay, And like a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath the evening moon. Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; My horse trudged on-and we drew nigh Those paths so dear to me. And now we reached the orchard plot; Towards the roof of Lucy's cot In one of those sweet dreams I slept, And all the while my eyes I kept My horse moved on; hoof after hoof At once, the bright moon dropped. What fond and wayward thoughts will slide "Oh, mercy!" to myself I cried, "If Lucy should be dead!" "SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS." SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A maid whom there were none to praise, A violet by a mossy stone Half-hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! "I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN." I TRAVELLED among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then 'Tis past, that melancholy dream! A second time; for still I seem Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire. Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played; And thine is too the last green field That Lucy's eyes surveyed. "TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE." "TIS said that some have died for love: And here and there a churchyard grave is found Because the wretched man himself had slain, His love was such a grievous pain. And there is one whom I five years have known; Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved the pretty Barbara died, And thus he makes his moan: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid When thus his moan he made 66 'Oh, move, thou cottage, from behind that oak' Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart: I look the sky is empty space; I know not what I trace; But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. "Oh, what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, When will that dying murmur be suppressed? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. Thou thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Upon that alder sit; Or sing another song, or choose another tree. "Roll back, sweet rill! back to thy mountain bounds, And there for ever be thy waters chained! For thou dost haunt the air with sounds That cannot be sustained; If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough Oh, let it then be dumb! Be any thing, sweet rill, but that which thou art now. "Thou eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers, Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale, And stir not in the gale! For thus to see thee nodding in the air, To see thy arch thus stretch and bend, Thus rise and thus descend, Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear.' The man who makes this feverish complaint "HOW RICH THAT FOREHEAD'S CALM EXPANSE." How rich that forehead's calm expanse ! Ere sorrow be renewed, And intercourse with mortal hours So looked-not ceasing to pursue But hand and voice alike are still; Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies, G |