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
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some. more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

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IO

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YARROW UNVISITED.

From Stirling castle we had seen

The mazy Forth unravelled;

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travelled;
And when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my 'winsome Marrow,'
'Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow.'

'Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own;
Each maiden to her dwelling!

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!

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IO

But we will downward with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

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'There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,

Both lying right before us;

And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land

Made blithe with plough and harrow:
Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?

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'What's Yarrow but a river bare,

That glides the dark hills under?

There are a thousand such elsewhere

As worthy of your wonder.'

-Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; My True-love sighed for sorrow;

And looked me in the face, to think

I thus could speak of Yarrow!

'Oh! green,' said I, 'are Yarrow's holms, And sweet is Yarrow flowing!

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

But we will leave it growing.
O'er hilly path, and open Strath,
We'll wander Scotland thorough;

But, though so near, we will not turn
Into the dale of Yarrow.

'Let beeves and home-bred kine partake

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow;
The swan on still St Mary's Lake
Float double, swan and shadow!

We will not see them; will not go,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow;
Enough if in our hearts we know
There's such a place as Yarrow.

'Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown!
It must, or we shall rue it :
We have a vision of our own;
Ah! why should we undo it?

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The treasured dreams of times long past,
We'll keep them, winsome Marrow!
For when we're there, although 'tis fair,
'Twill be another Yarrow!

'If Care with freezing years should come,

And wandering seem but folly,

Should we be loth to stir from home,

And yet be melancholy;

Should life be dull, and spirits low,

'Twill soothe us in our sorrow,

That earth hath something yet to show,

The bonny holms of Yarrow!'

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;

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Like Twilight's, too, her, dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.

ΙΟ

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.

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I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD.

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

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