In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,May my fate no less fortunate beThan a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,While I carol away idle sorrow,And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawnLook forward with hope for Tomorrow.With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,As the sunshine or rain may prevail;And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,With a barn for the use of the flail:A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completelySecured by a neighbouring hill;And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetlyBy the sound of a murmuring rill:And while peace and plenty I find at my board,With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,With my friends may I share what Today may afford,And let them spread the table Tomorrow.And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ringWhich I've worn for three-score years and ten,On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,May become Everlasting Tomorrow.
In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,May my fate no less fortunate beThan a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,While I carol away idle sorrow,And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawnLook forward with hope for Tomorrow.
With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,As the sunshine or rain may prevail;And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,With a barn for the use of the flail:A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.
From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completelySecured by a neighbouring hill;And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetlyBy the sound of a murmuring rill:And while peace and plenty I find at my board,With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,With my friends may I share what Today may afford,And let them spread the table Tomorrow.
And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ringWhich I've worn for three-score years and ten,On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,May become Everlasting Tomorrow.
J. Collins
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we metI own to me's a secret yet.Life! we've been long togetherThrough pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;—Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.
Life! I know not what thou art,But know that thou and I must part;And when, or how, or where we metI own to me's a secret yet.
Life! we've been long togetherThrough pleasant and through cloudy weather;'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;—Then steal away, give little warning,Choose thine own time;Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter climeBid me Good Morning.
A. L. Barbauld
Whether on Ida's shady brow,Or in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the air,Where the melodious winds have birth;Whether on crystal rocks ye roveBeneath the bosom of the sea,Wandering in many a coral grove,—Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoy'd in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
Whether on Ida's shady brow,Or in the chambers of the East,The chambers of the sun, that nowFrom ancient melody have ceased;
Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,Or the green corners of the earth,Or the blue regions of the air,Where the melodious winds have birth;
Whether on crystal rocks ye roveBeneath the bosom of the sea,Wandering in many a coral grove,—Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;
How have you left the ancient loveThat bards of old enjoy'd in you!The languid strings do scarcely move,The sound is forced, the notes are few.
W. Blake
Bards of Passion and of MirthYe have left your souls on earth!Have ye souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new?—Yes, and those of heaven communeWith the spheres of sun and moon;With the noise of fountains wond'rousAnd the parle of voices thund'rous;With the whisper of heaven's treesAnd one another, in soft easeSeated on Elysian lawnsBrowsed by none but Dian's fawns;Underneath large blue-bells tented,Where the daisies are rose-scented,And the rose herself has gotPerfume which on earth is not;Where the nightingale doth singNot a senseless, trancéd thing,But divine melodious truth;Philosophic numbers smooth;Tales and golden historiesOf heaven and its mysteries.Thus ye live on high, and thenOn the earth ye live again;And the souls ye left behind youTeach us, here, the way to find you,Where your other souls are joying,Never slumber'd, never cloying.Here, your earth-born souls still speakTo mortals, of their little week;Of their sorrows and delights;Of their passions and their spites;Of their glory and their shame;What doth strengthen and what maim:—Thus ye teach us, every day,Wisdom, though fled far away.Bards of Passion and of MirthYe have left your souls on earth!Ye have souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new!
Bards of Passion and of MirthYe have left your souls on earth!Have ye souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new?
—Yes, and those of heaven communeWith the spheres of sun and moon;With the noise of fountains wond'rousAnd the parle of voices thund'rous;With the whisper of heaven's treesAnd one another, in soft easeSeated on Elysian lawnsBrowsed by none but Dian's fawns;Underneath large blue-bells tented,Where the daisies are rose-scented,And the rose herself has gotPerfume which on earth is not;Where the nightingale doth singNot a senseless, trancéd thing,But divine melodious truth;Philosophic numbers smooth;Tales and golden historiesOf heaven and its mysteries.
Thus ye live on high, and thenOn the earth ye live again;And the souls ye left behind youTeach us, here, the way to find you,Where your other souls are joying,Never slumber'd, never cloying.Here, your earth-born souls still speakTo mortals, of their little week;Of their sorrows and delights;Of their passions and their spites;Of their glory and their shame;What doth strengthen and what maim:—Thus ye teach us, every day,Wisdom, though fled far away.
Bards of Passion and of MirthYe have left your souls on earth!Ye have souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new!
J. Keats
Much have I travell'd in the realms of goldAnd many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:—Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyesHe stared at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Much have I travell'd in the realms of goldAnd many goodly states and kingdoms seen;Round many western islands have I beenWhich bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been toldThat deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:Yet did I never breathe its pure sereneTill I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
—Then felt I like some watcher of the skiesWhen a new planet swims into his ken;Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific—and all his menLook'd at each other with a wild surmise—Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
J. Keats
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruin'd tower.The moonshine stealing o'er the sceneHad blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!She lean'd against the arméd man,The statue of the arméd knight;She stood and listen'd to my lay,Amid the lingering light.Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.I play'd a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo'dThe Lady of the Land.I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's loveInterpreted my own.She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face!But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade,—There came and look'd him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!And that unknowing what he did,He leap'd amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land;—And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;And how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;—And that she nursed him in a cave,And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;—His dying words—but when I reach'dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturb'd her soul with pity!All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherish'd long!She wept with pity and delight,She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.She half inclosed me with her arms,She press'd me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look'd up,And gazed upon my face.'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful artThat I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine stealing o'er the sceneHad blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!
She lean'd against the arméd man,The statue of the arméd knight;She stood and listen'd to my lay,Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo'dThe Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's loveInterpreted my own.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face!
But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade,—
There came and look'd him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did,He leap'd amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land;—
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;And how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;—
And that she nursed him in a cave,And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;—
His dying words—but when I reach'dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturb'd her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherish'd long!
She wept with pity and delight,She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms,She press'd me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look'd up,And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful artThat I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.
S. T. Coleridge
O talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?Oh Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discoverShe thought that I was not unworthy to love her.There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
O talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:Then away with all such from the head that is hoary—What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?
Oh Fame!—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discoverShe thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.
Lord Byron
O Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer-queen.And as I rode by Dalton-HallBeneath the turrets high,A Maiden on the castle-wallWas singing merrily:'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen.''If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,To leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead weThat dwell by dale and down.And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the greenwood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May.'Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen.'I read you, by your bugle-hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read you for a ranger swornTo keep the king's greenwood.''A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,And 'tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night.'Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay;I would I were with Edmund thereTo reign his Queen of May!'With burnish'd brand and musketoonSo gallantly you come,I read you for a bold DragoonThat lists the tuck of drum.''I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his humMy comrades take the spear.And O! though Brignall banks be fairAnd Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dareWould reign my Queen of May!'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I'll die;The fiend whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I'm with my comrades metBeneath the greenwood bough,—What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.'
O Brignall banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer-queen.And as I rode by Dalton-HallBeneath the turrets high,A Maiden on the castle-wallWas singing merrily:'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen.'
'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,To leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead weThat dwell by dale and down.And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the greenwood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May.'Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green;I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English queen.
'I read you, by your bugle-hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read you for a ranger swornTo keep the king's greenwood.''A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,And 'tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night.'Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay;I would I were with Edmund thereTo reign his Queen of May!
'With burnish'd brand and musketoonSo gallantly you come,I read you for a bold DragoonThat lists the tuck of drum.''I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his humMy comrades take the spear.And O! though Brignall banks be fairAnd Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dareWould reign my Queen of May!
'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I'll die;The fiend whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I'm with my comrades metBeneath the greenwood bough,—What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.'
Chorus
'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer-queen.'
'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands thereWould grace a summer-queen.'
Sir W. Scott
There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like Thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep,Whose breast is gently heavingAs an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before theeTo listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like Thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmed ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep,Whose breast is gently heavingAs an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before theeTo listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
Lord Byron
I arise from dreams of TheeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing lowAnd the stars are shining bright:I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, Sweet!The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—The champak odours failLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale's complaintIt dies upon her heart,As I must die on thineO belovéd as thou art!Oh lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast;Oh! press it close to thine againWhere it will break at last.
I arise from dreams of TheeIn the first sweet sleep of night,When the winds are breathing lowAnd the stars are shining bright:I arise from dreams of thee,And a spirit in my feetHath led me—who knows how?To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faintOn the dark, the silent stream—The champak odours failLike sweet thoughts in a dream;The nightingale's complaintIt dies upon her heart,As I must die on thineO belovéd as thou art!
Oh lift me from the grass!I die, I faint, I fail!Let thy love in kisses rainOn my lips and eyelids pale.My cheek is cold and white, alas!My heart beats loud and fast;Oh! press it close to thine againWhere it will break at last.
P. B. Shelley
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies,And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tressOr softly lightens o'er her face,Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.And on that cheek and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glowBut tell of days in goodness spent,—A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.
She walks in beauty, like the nightOf cloudless climes and starry skies,And all that's best of dark and brightMeet in her aspect and her eyes;Thus mellow'd to that tender lightWhich heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,Had half impair'd the nameless graceWhich waves in every raven tressOr softly lightens o'er her face,Where thoughts serenely sweet expressHow pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, yet eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glowBut tell of days in goodness spent,—A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent.
Lord Byron
She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo 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 drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.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 meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.And now I see with eye sereneThe 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 plann'dTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.
She was a Phantom of delightWhen first she gleam'd upon my sight;A lovely Apparition, sentTo 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 drawnFrom May-time and the cheerful dawn;A dancing shape, an image gay,To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
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 meetSweet records, promises as sweet;A creature not too bright or goodFor human nature's daily food,For transient sorrows, simple wiles,Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye sereneThe 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 plann'dTo warn, to comfort, and command;And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of an angel-light.
W. Wordsworth
She is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be;Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me.O then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light.But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne'er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
She is not fair to outward viewAs many maidens be;Her loveliness I never knewUntil she smiled on me.O then I saw her eye was bright,A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold,To mine they ne'er reply,And yet I cease not to beholdThe love-light in her eye:Her very frowns are fairer farThan smiles of other maidens are.
H. Coleridge
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;Thou needest not fear mine;My spirit is too deeply ladenEver to burthen thine.I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;Thou needest not fear mine;Innocent is the heart's devotionWith which I worship thine.
I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;Thou needest not fear mine;My spirit is too deeply ladenEver to burthen thine.
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;Thou needest not fear mine;Innocent is the heart's devotionWith which I worship thine.
P. B. Shelley
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.A violet by a mossy stoneHalf-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me!
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove;A maid whom there were none to praise,And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf-hidden from the eye!—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and, oh,The difference to me!
W. Wordsworth
I travell'd among unknown menIn lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'dThe bowers where Lucy play'd;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.
I travell'd among unknown menIn lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.
Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'dThe bowers where Lucy play'd;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.
W. Wordsworth
Three years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown:This Child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.'Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.'She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;And her's shall be the breathing balm,And her's the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things.'The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeEv'n in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mould the maiden's formBy silent sympathy.'The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.'And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell.'Thus Nature spake—The work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be.
Three years she grew in sun and shower;Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flowerOn earth was never sown:This Child I to myself will take;She shall be mine, and I will makeA lady of my own.
'Myself will to my darling beBoth law and impulse: and with meThe girl, in rock and plain,In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,Shall feel an overseeing powerTo kindle or restrain.
'She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;And her's shall be the breathing balm,And her's the silence and the calmOf mute insensate things.
'The floating clouds their state shall lendTo her; for her the willow bend;Nor shall she fail to seeEv'n in the motions of the stormGrace that shall mould the maiden's formBy silent sympathy.
'The stars of midnight shall be dearTo her; and she shall lean her earIn many a secret placeWhere rivulets dance their wayward round,And beauty born of murmuring soundShall pass into her face.
'And vital feelings of delightShall rear her form to stately height,Her virgin bosom swell;Such thoughts to Lucy I will giveWhile she and I together liveHere in this happy dell.'
Thus Nature spake—The work was done—How soon my Lucy's race was run!She died, and left to meThis heath, this calm and quiet scene;The memory of what has been,And never more will be.
W. Wordsworth
A slumber did my spirit seal;I had no human fears:She seem'd a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.No motion has she now, no force;She neither hears nor sees;Roll'd round in earth's diurnal courseWith rocks, and stones, and trees.
A slumber did my spirit seal;I had no human fears:She seem'd a thing that could not feelThe touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;She neither hears nor sees;Roll'd round in earth's diurnal courseWith rocks, and stones, and trees.
W. Wordsworth
I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;Thy thrilling voice I hear;And former hours and scenes retrace,Too fleeting, and too dear!Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,Though none is nigh to share;And life has nought beside for meSo sweet as this despair.There are crush'd hearts that will not break;And mine, methinks, is one;Or thus I should not weep and wake,And thou to slumber gone.I little thought it thus could beIn days more sad and fair—That earth could have a place for me,And thou no longer there.Yet death cannot our hearts divide,Or make thee less my own:'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy sideThan watching here alone.Yet never, never can we part,While Memory holds her reign:Thine, thine is still this wither'd heartTill we shall meet again.
I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;Thy thrilling voice I hear;And former hours and scenes retrace,Too fleeting, and too dear!
Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,Though none is nigh to share;And life has nought beside for meSo sweet as this despair.
There are crush'd hearts that will not break;And mine, methinks, is one;Or thus I should not weep and wake,And thou to slumber gone.
I little thought it thus could beIn days more sad and fair—That earth could have a place for me,And thou no longer there.
Yet death cannot our hearts divide,Or make thee less my own:'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy sideThan watching here alone.
Yet never, never can we part,While Memory holds her reign:Thine, thine is still this wither'd heartTill we shall meet again.
H. F. Lyte
A Chieftain to the Highlands boundCries 'Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry!''Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?''O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.'And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.'His horsemen hard behind us ride—Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny bride,When they have slain her lover?'Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:—'And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So though the waves are raging whiteI'll row you o'er the ferry.'By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of Heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode arméd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,'Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.'The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human handThe tempest gather'd o'er her.And still they row'd amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,—His wrath was changed to wailing.For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shadeHis child he did discover:—One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,And one was round her lover.'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief'Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—Oh, my daughter!''Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
A Chieftain to the Highlands boundCries 'Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry!'
'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?''O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
'And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
'His horsemen hard behind us ride—Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny bride,When they have slain her lover?'
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:It is not for your silver bright,But for your winsome lady:—
'And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So though the waves are raging whiteI'll row you o'er the ferry.'
By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of Heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode arméd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.
'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,'Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.'
The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human handThe tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,—His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shadeHis child he did discover:—One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,And one was round her lover.
'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief'Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—Oh, my daughter!'
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,Return or aid preventing:The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
T. Campbell
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And when I cross'd the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.'To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour mother through the snow.''That, Father! will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!'At this the father raised his hook,And snapp'd a faggot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time:She wander'd up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb:But never reach'd the town.The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlook'd the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of woodA furlong from their door.They wept—and, turning homeward, cried'In heaven we all shall meet!'—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey track'd the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone-wall:And then an open field they cross'd:The marks were still the same;They track'd them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came:They follow'd from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And when I cross'd the wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.
'To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour mother through the snow.'
'That, Father! will I gladly do:'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon!'
At this the father raised his hook,And snapp'd a faggot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:She wander'd up and down;And many a hill did Lucy climb:But never reach'd the town.
The wretched parents all that nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlook'd the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of woodA furlong from their door.
They wept—and, turning homeward, cried'In heaven we all shall meet!'—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edgeThey track'd the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone-wall:
And then an open field they cross'd:The marks were still the same;They track'd them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came:
They follow'd from the snowy bankThose footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!
—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
W. Wordsworth