SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:.
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, oh,
The difference to me!
A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL.
A slumber did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN.
I travelled among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.
"Tis past, that melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed,
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, "Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower-I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet "Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless Prodigal; Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come!
Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane; there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee. Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine.
Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill-requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass!! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! ki 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 More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard a In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird," Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides."
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