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Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads,
Past the boughs she stoops — and stops.
With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him— never,
That swan's nest among the reeds !
“The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
Her virgin bosom swell ;
Here in this happy dell."
She died, and left to me
And nevermore will be.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
SWEET STREAM, THAT WINDS
SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
“Young, gay, and fortunate !" Each yields a
theme. And, first, thy youth : what says it to gray hairs ? Narcissa, I'm become thy pupil now ;Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.
THE EDUCATION OF NATURE.
DR. EDWARD YOUNG.
Three years she grew in sun and shower;
On earth was never sown :
A lady of my own.
MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes,
THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN.
The shades of eve had crossed the glen
That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men,
We stopped before a cottage door.
“God save all here," my comrade cries,
And rattles on the raised latch-pin; “God save you kindly,” quick replies
A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.
We enter; from the wheel she starts,
A rosy girl with soft black eyes ;
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.
Poor Mary, she was quite alone,
For, all the way to Glenmalure, Her mother had that morning gone,
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet
The shame that startled virgins feel, Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.
She brought us in a beechen bowl
Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll
Of butter, - it gilds all my rhyme !
And, while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined), Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.
Kind wishes both our souls engaged,
From breast to breast spontaneous ran The mutual thought, — we stood and pledged
THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE Loch DAN.
“The milk we drink is not more pure,
Sweet Mary, bless those budding charms !Than your own generous heart, I'm sure,
Nor whiter than the breast it warms !”
She turned and gazed, unused to hear
Such language in that homely glen ; But, Mary, you have naught to fear,
Though smiled on by two stranger-men.
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Standing, with reluctant feet,
Gazing, with a timid glance,
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Then why pause with indecision,
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
O thou child of many prayers !
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
0, that dew, like balm, shall steal
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
Not for a crown would I alarm
Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm
My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.
TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF
Her simple heart could not but feel
The words we spoke were free from guile; She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,
"T is all in vain, — she can't but smile ! Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face, - I see it yet,
Methinks I never could forget
Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The white teeth struggling into sight, The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,
The rosy cheek that won't be still ;0, who could blame what flatterers speak,
Did smiles like this reward their skill ?
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Many an echo,
Soft and low,
Come and go ;
Quick as thine, Loving to linger
On the line,
Dearer than brother :
J. W. PALMER.
Thou art to me but as a wave
Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace
"One name is Elizabeth." - BEX JONSON. I will paint her as I see her.
Ten times have the lilies blown
And her face is lily-clear,
Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
Oval cheeks encolored faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
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
Moving light, as all your things,
As young birds, or early wheat,
Only, free from flutterings
Of loud uirth that scorneth measure,
Choosing pleasures, for the rest,
Which come softly, — just as she,
Quiet talk she liketh best,
In a bower of gentle looks, -
And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
And her smile, it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
And if any poet knew her,
He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.
He would paint her unaware
And if reader read the poem,
He would whisper, “You bave done a
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,
And all voices that address her
Soften, sleeken every word,
And all fancies yearn to cover
The hard earth whereon she passes,
And all hearts do pray, “God love her !"
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.
BETWEEN the dark and the daylight,
When night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the children's hour.