Yet, dream and vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart: God shield thee to thy latest years! I neither know thee nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away:
For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness :
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer. A face with gladness overspread ! Sweet looks, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind, Thus beating up against the wind.
What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea: and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see! Thy elder Brother I would be, Thy Father, any thing to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is we prize Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from Thee to part; For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the Cabin small, The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall; And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt So sweetly to reposing bands Of Travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again!
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;
I listened motionless and still :
And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
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