V

"Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower
Of beauty was thy earthly dower,"
When thou didst flit before mine eyes,
Gay Vision under sullen skies,

While Hope and Love around thee played,
Near the rough falls of Inversneyd!

Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen
No breach of promise in the fruit?
Was joy, in following joy, as keen
As grief can be in grief's pursuit?

When youth had flown did hope still bless
Thy goings or the cheerfulness

Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

VI

But from our course why turn-to tread
A way with shadows overspread;
Where what we gladliest would believe
Is feared as what may most deceive?
Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned
But heath-bells from thy native ground,
Time cannot thin thy flowing hair,

Nor take one ray of light from Thee;

For in my Fancy thou dost share

The gift of immortality;

And there shall bloom, with Thee allied,

The Votaress by Lugano's side;

And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850)

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

THE primrwose in the sheäde do blow,

The cowslip in the zun,

The thyme upon the down do grow,

The clote where streams do run;

Blackmwore Maidens.

An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tower
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gait,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waïght,
An' steppen off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring within the tower,

You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,

An' all the farmers' housen showed
Their daughters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-
"Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

An' if you looked 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleäce,
A-doèn housework up avore
Their smilèn mother's feäce;
You'd cry-"Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dower,

Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour."

As I upon my road did pass

A school-house back in May,
There out upon the beäten grass
Wer maïdens at their plaÿ;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, "The flower
O' beauty, then, is still in bud

In Blackmwore by the Stour."

323

William Barnes [1801-1886]

A PORTRAIT

"One name is Elizabeth "

BEN JONSON

I WILL paint her as I see her.
Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear,

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,—

Though too calm, you think, and tender,
For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,

Frank, obedient, waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things,
As young birds, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure-
Taking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest,

Which come softly-just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks,-
Watering flowers, or reading books.

A Portrait

And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels (you feel) the sun.

And her smile it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware
With a halo round her hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper-"You have done a
Consecrated little Una!"

And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, ""Tis my angel, with a name!"

And a stranger,-when he sees her
In the street even-smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.

And all voices that address her,
Soften, sleeken every word,
As if speaking to a bird.

And all fancies yearn to cover

The hard earth, whereon she passes,
With the thymy-scented grasses.

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!"
Ay and always, in good sooth,

We may all be sure HE DOTH.

325

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

TO A CHILD OF FANCY

THE nests are in the hedgerows,
The lambs are on the grass;
With laughter sweet as music
The hours lightfooted pass,

My darling child of fancy,
My winsome prattling lass.

Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl,

Red little lips disclosing

Twin rows of fairy pearl,

Cheeks like the apple blossom,
Voice lightsome as the merle.

A whole Spring's fickle changes,
In every short-lived day,
A passing cloud of April,
A flowery smile of May,
A thousand quick mutations
From graver moods to gay.

Far off, I see the season

When thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens wider Beneath the growing sun,

And the rose begins to redden,

But the violets are done.

And further still the summer,
When thy fair tree, fully grown,
Shall bourgeon, and grow splendid
With blossoms of its own,
And the fruit begins to gather,
But the buttercups are mown.

If I should see thy autumn,
"Twill not be close at hand,
But with a spirit vision,
From some far-distant land.