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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.
Lo, the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

XVII.
Ellie went home sad and slow.
If she found the lover ever,

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.
“ And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell ;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."
Thus Nature spake. The work was done, -
How soon my Lucy's race was run !

She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,

And nevermore will be.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SWEET STREAM, THAT WINDS

W. WORDSWORTH.

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid,
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay, busy throng;
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course ;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes;
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,
And Heaven reflected in her face.

NARCISSA.

W. COWPER.

“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.

MAIDENHOOD.

Three years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, “ A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take ;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

MAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies !

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 fluttering court'sy takes our hearts,

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,
Golden tresses wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run !

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse !

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?

Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar ?

O thou child of many prayers !
Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares !
Care and age come unawares !

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; -
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

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

INVERSNAID.

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,
And though I lived a hundred years

Methinks I never could forget
The pleasure that, despite her heart,

Fills all her downcast eyes with light,
The lips reluctantly apart,

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 ?

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SWEET 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 gray 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 O 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.
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.
What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful ?
O happy pleasure ! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell ;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess !
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality :

Many an echo,

Soft and low,
Follows thy flying

Fancy so,
Melodies thrilling,
Tenderly filling
Thee with their trilling,

Come and go ;
Memory's finger,

Quick as thine, Loving to linger

On the line,
Writes of another,

Dearer than brother :
Would that the name were mine!

J. W. PALMER.

Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighborhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see !
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, - anything to thee.

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.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes :
Then why should I be loath to stir ?
I feel this place was made for her ;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old
As fair before me shall behold
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall ;
And thee, the spirit of them all!

W. WORDSWORTH.

A PORTRAIT.

"One name is Elizabeth." - BEX 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 your things,

As young birds, or early wheat,
When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings

Of loud uirth 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.

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 the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

He would whisper, “You bave 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 DOTI.

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.

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