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I wandered lonely'
I WANDERED lonely as a cloud
For oft, when on my couch I lie
WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
With vain endeavour.
A springy motion in her gait,
That flushed her spirit.
She did inherit.
Nature had blest her.
Ye could not Hester.
Some Summer morning,
To Evening IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales ; O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,
O'erhang his wavy bed :
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises midst the twilight path,
Now teach me, maid composed
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding-star arising shows
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That from the mountain's side,
Views wilds, and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;
Affrights thy shrinking train,
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Thy gentlest influence own,
The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ;
The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once it bore ; Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were ?
Or is the dreary change in me? Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye !
How to the minstreľs skill reply !
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ;
The Wife of Usher's Well
THERE lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she ;
And sent them o'er the sea.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
That her three sons were gane.
A week but barely three,
That her sons she'd never see.
"I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fishes in the flood,
In earthly flesh and blood !'
When nights are lang and mirk,
And their hats were o' the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o' Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.
Bring water from the well !
three sons are well !' And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide ;
Sat down at the bed-side.
Up then crew the red red cock,
And up and crew the gray ; The eldest to the youngest said,
"'Tis time we were away!'
And clapp'd his wings at a',
• Brother, we must awa'.