"Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn Or up the mountain springs; "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm "The stars of midnight shall be dear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake, The work was done, How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; And nevermore will be. NARCISSA. W. WORDSWORTH. "YOUNG, gay, and fortunate!" Each yields a theme. And, first, thy youth: what says it to gray hairs? DR. EDWARD YOUNG. MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies Like the dusk in evening skies! SWEETER and sweeter, Soft and low, Neat little nymph, Thy numbers flow, Urging thy thimble, Busy and nimble, To and fro; Prettily plying Thread and song, Keeping them flying Late and long, Through the stitch linger, Kissing thy finger, Quick, as it skips along. Many an echo, Soft and low, Follows thy flying Fancy so, Melodies thrilling, Thee with their trilling, Come and go; Memory's finger, Quick as thine, Loving to linger On the line, Writes of another, Dearer than brother: Would that the name were mine! TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower And these gray rocks, this household lawn, A murmur near the silent lake, For never saw I mien or face In which more plainly I could trace Here scattered like a random seed, What hand but would a garland cull Thou art to me but as a wave Of the wild sea; and I would have Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, A PORTRAIT. W. WORDSWORTH. "One name is Elizabeth."-BEN JONSON. I WILL paint her as I see her. Ten times have the lilies blown And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air; And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child, Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still Moving light, as all your things, As young birds, or early wheat, Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks, Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware And if reader read the poem, - |