And warble his sweet wintry song
O'er our dwelling all day long!-

And he shall warble his sweet song,
O'er your dwelling all day long!
Now, tender friends, my garments take,
And lay me out for Jesus' sake!—

And we will now thy garments take,
And lay thee out for Jesus' sake!
And lay me by my true love's side,
That I may be a faithful bride!—

We'll lay thee by thy true love's side,
That thou mayst be a faithful bride!
When I am dead, and buried be,
Pray to God in heaven for me!-

Now thou art dead we 'll bury thee,
And pray to God in heaven for thee!
-Benedicite !


An Apology


THEY that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;


Neither do, nor care to know
Whether it be best or no.

So they that are to love inclined,
Swayed by chance, not choice, or art,
To the first that 's fair or kind,
Make a present of their heart:
It is not she that first we love
But whom dying we approve.

To man, that as in th' evening made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring in the gloomy shade
Those little drops of light:
Then at Aurora, whose fair hand
Removed them from the skies,
He gazing toward the east did stand,
She entertained his eyes.

But when the bright sun did appear,
All those he 'gan despise;

His wonder was determined there,

And could no higher rise.

He neither might nor wished to know

A more refulgent light:

For that (as mine your beauties now)
Employed his utmost sight.



The Nameless Mountain Stream.


Up from the shore of the placid lake
Wherein thou tumblest, murmuring low,
Over the meadow and through the brake,
And over the moor where the rushes grow,
I've traced thy course, thou gentle brook :-
I've seen thy life in all thy moods;

I've seen thee lingering in the nook
Of the shady, fragrant, pine-tree woods;
I've seen thee starting and leaping down

The smooth high rocks and boulders brown;
I've tracked thee upwards, upwards still,

From the spot where the lonely birch-tree stands,
Low adown amid shingle and sands,

Over the brow of the ferny hill,

Over the moorland, purple dyed,
Over the rifts of granite grey,

Up to thy source on the mountain side,
Far away-oh, far away.


Beautiful stream! By rock and dell,
There's not an inch in all thy course
I have not tracked. I know thee well;
I know where blossoms the yellow gorse,


I know where waves the pale blue-bell,
And where the hidden violets dwell.
I know where the foxglove rears its head,
And where the heather tufts are spread;
I know where the meadow-sweets exhale,
And the white valerians load the gale.
I know the spot the bees love best,

And where the linnet has built her nest.

I know the bushes the grouse frequent,

And the nooks where the shy deer browse the bent.

I know each tree to thy fountain head—
The lady-birches, slim and fair:

The feathery larch, the rowans red,
The brambles trailing their tangled hair.
And each is linked to my waking thought
By some remembrance fancy-fraught.


I know the pools where the trout are found,
The happy trout, untouched by me.
I know the basins, smooth and round,
Worn by thy ceaseless industry,
Out of the hard and stubborn stone--
Fair clear basins where nymphs might float;
And where in the noon-time all alone

The brisk bold robin cleans his coat.

I know thy voice: I've heard thee sing

Many a soft and plaintive tune,

Like a lover's song in life's young spring,

Or Endymion's to the moon.

I've heard it deepen to a roar


When thou wert swollen by Autumn rains,
And rushed from the hill-tops to the plains,
A loud and passionate orator.

I've spoken to thee-and thou to me-
At morn, or noon, or closing night!
And ever the voice of thy minstrelsy
Has been companion of delight.


Yet, lovely stream, unknown to fame,

Thou hast oozed, and flowed, and leaped, and run,
Ever since Time its course begun,
Without a record, without a name.
I asked the shepherd on the hill—
He knew thee but as a common rill;
I asked the farmers' blue-eyed daughter-
She knew thee but as a running water;
I asked the boatman on the shore,
He was never asked to tell before-
Thou wert a brook, and nothing more.


Yet, stream, so dear to me alone,

I prize and cherish thee none the less

That thou flowest unseen, unpraised, unknown,

In the unfrequented wilderness.

Though none admire and lay to heart
How good and beautiful thou art,
Thy flowerets bloom, thy waters run,
And the free birds chant thy benison.


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