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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.


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;
And as we climbed the hill,
Towards the roof of Lucy's cot
The moon descended still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.
My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped :
When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.
What fond and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
“Oh, mercy!” to myself I cried,
“If Lucy should be dead!”


She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

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,

In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England ! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.
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:
And here and there a churchyard grave is found
In the cold north's unhallowed ground, -
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known;
He dwells alone
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-

"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
Headlong yon waterfall must come,
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,
Thou one fair shrub, oh, shed thy flowers,
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
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah, gentle love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, or know
Such happiness as I have known to-day.



How rich that forehead's calm expanse !
How bright that heaven-directed glance !
Waft her to glory, winged powers,
Ere sorrow be renewed,
And intercourse with mortal hours
Bring back a humbler mood !
So looked Cecilia when she drew
An angel from his station ;
So looked—not ceasing to pursue
Her tuneful adoration !

But hand and voice alike are still;
No sound here sweeps away the will
That gave it birth; in service meek
One upright arm sustains the cheek,
And one across the bosom lies-
That rose, and now forgets to rise,
Subdued by breathless harmonies
Of meditative feeling;
Mute strains from worlds beyond the skies,
Through the pure light of female eyes
Their sanctity revealing!

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