A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step, did indicate
Of pride and joy no common rate,
That flushed her spirit ; .
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ;
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind-
Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour, gone before
To that unknown and silent shore,
Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
Some summer morning,
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
A bliss that would not go away,
A sweet forewarning?
Such goodness in your face doth shine,
With modest look, without design,
That I despair, poor pen of mine
Can e'er express it.
To give it words I feebly try;
My spirits fail me to supply
Befitting language for 't, and I
Can only bless it!
I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me—all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
IN MY OWN ALBUM.
Fresh clad from Heaven in robes of white,
A young probationer of light,
Thou wert my soul an album white,
A spotless leaf; but thought and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair,
Have written strange defeatures there.
And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamped sad dates he can't recall. . .
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
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;
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.
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 an angel light.
IN A BOAT AT EVENING.
How richly glows the water's breast
Before us, tinged with evening hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The Boat her silent course pursues !
And see how dark the backward stream !
A little moment past so smiling!
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterers beguiling.
Such views the youthful Bard allure;
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
Till peace go with him to the tomb.
—And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow?
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
From-INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy !
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy;
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy ;
The youth who daily farther from the East
Must travel, still is Nature's priest,
And by the vision splendid
Is on his way attended;
At length the man perceives it die away,
And fade into the light of common day.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass !
Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands;
Such thrilling voice was never heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
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 till I had my fill,
And as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.
From THE EXCURSION, BOOK VII. A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays, And confident to-morrows.
SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. She lived unseen, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,
The difference to me!
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