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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 O,

The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN.

THE shades of eve had crossed the glen

That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door. "God save all here," my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin; “God save you kindly," quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.

We enter; from the wheel she starts,

A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.

Poor Mary, she was quite alone,

For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone,
And left the house in charge with her.

But neither household cares, nor yet

The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us in a beechen bowl

Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll

Of butter, it gilds all my rhyme!
And, while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined),
Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.

Kind wishes both our souls engaged,

From breast to breast spontaneous ran

The mutual thought, - we stood and pledged THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN.

"The milk we drink is not more pure,

Sweet Mary, bless those budding charms!Than your own generous heart, I'm sure,

Nor whiter than the breast it warms!"

She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen;

But, Mary, you have naught to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger-men.

Not for a crown would I alarmı

Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.

Her simple heart could not but feel

The words we spoke were free from guile;
She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,
"T is all in vain, - she can't but smile!
Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face, I see it yet,
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget

The pleasure that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light;
The lips reluctantly apart,

The white teeth struggling into sight,
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,

The rosy cheek that won't be still :--
O, who could blame what flatterers speak,
Did smiles like this reward their skill?
For such another smile, I vow,

Though loudly beats the midnight rain,
I'd take the mountain-side e'en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again!

SAMUEL FERGUSON,

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head ;
And these gray rocks, this household lawn,
These trees,
-a veil just half withdrawn,
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake,
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode ;
In truth together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream,
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
1 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;

106

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,
Soft smiles, 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 neighborhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything 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 recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loath 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 loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For 1, methinks, til 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!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,

SWEET STREAM, THAT WINDS.
SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid,
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay, busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.

RUTH.

WILLIAM COWPER

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"Whom the gods love die young," was said of Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

yore.

Don Juan, Cant. iv. Stan. 12.

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;

The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.
Epitaph on an Infant.

Manfred.

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S. T. COLEridge.

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And if I chance to fall below

Demosthenes or Cicero,

Don't view me with a critic's eye,

But pass my imperfections by.
Large streams from little fountains flow,
Tall oaks from little acorus grow.

Lines written for a School Declamation.

BYRON.

D. EVERETT.

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