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MARIAN LEE.

Sees her father's fishing boat
O'er the ocean gaily float;
Lists her brother's evening song,
By the light gale borne along;
Half a league she hears the lay,
Ere they turn into the bay;

And with glee, o'er cliff and main,

Sings an answer back again,
Which by man and boy is heard,

Like the carol of a bird!

Look! she sitteth laughing there,
Wreathing sea-weeds in her hair!
Saw you e'er a thing so fair?
Marian, some are rich in gold,
Heaped-up treasures, hoards untold;
Some are rich in thoughts refined,

And the glorious wealth of mind:
Thou, sweet child, life's rose unblown,

Hast a treasure of thine own :-
Youth's most unalloyed delights,
Happy days and tranquil nights;
And a brain with thought unvexed,
And a light heart, unperplexed.
Go, thou sweet one, all day long,
Like a glad bird, pour thy song,
And let thy young, graceful head
Be with sea-flowers garlanded;
For all outward signs of glee
Well become thee, Marian Lee!

MARY HOWITT.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

135

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

WEET Highland girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these grey rocks, this household lawn,

These trees-a veil just half withdrawn,

This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake,

This little bay, a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy abode ;
In truth together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But oh, fair creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart!
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers,
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away;

For never saw I mien or face

In which more plainly I could trace

Benignity and home-bred sense

Ripening in perfect innocence.

136

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness;
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer:
A face with gladness overspread,
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs.
From quick and eager visitings

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech;
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife.
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,

Thus beating up against the wind.

Now thanks to heaven! that of its grace

Hath led me to this lonely place.

Joy have I had; and going hence

I bear away my recompense.

WORDSWORTH.

NATURE.

NATURE.

O cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the west, no long, thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,

A balmy night! and, though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the nightingale begins its song.

"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!

A melancholy bird? oh, idle thought!

In nature there is nothing melancholy.

But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced.
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,

Or slow distemper, or neglected love

(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale

Of his own sorrow)-he and such as he,

First named these notes a melancholy strain.

And many a poet echoes the conceit;

Poet who hath been building up the rhyme

When he had better far have stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,

By sun or moon-light to the influxes

Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements

137

Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in Nature's immortality,

A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My friend, and thou our sister! we have learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance. 'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!

And I know a grove

Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths-

But never elsewhere in one place I knew
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,