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 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!
'Whom the gods love die young," was said of Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
which, seek through the world, is never met with elsewhere!
There's no place like home! there's no place like home!
John Howard Fayne. /
The shore is lined with anchored Slipch, сче One ship the line to eye will miss; But God will know which auction slips
And sand his angels one with this
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