-Queen, and handmaid lowly!

Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares,
And banish melancholy

By all that mind invents or hand prepares;
O Thou, against whose lip, without its smile
And in its silence even, no heart is proof;
Whose goodness, sinking deep, would reconcile
The softest Nursling of a gorgeous palace
To the bare life beneath the hawthorn-roof
Of Sherwood's Archer, or in caves of Wallace-
Who that hath seen thy beauty could content
His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly day?
Who that hath loved thee, but would lay
His strong hand on the wind, if it were bent
To take thee in thy majesty away?

-Pass onward (even the glancing deer

Till we depart intrude not here ;)

That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose!"

Glad moment is it when the throng
Of warblers in full concert strong
Strive, and not vainly strive, to rout

The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus out,
Met by the rainbow's form divine,

Issuing from her cloudy shrine ;—

So may the thrillings of the lyre
Prevail to further our desire,

While to these shades a sister Nymph I call.

"Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce,
Come, youngest of the lovely Three, (*)
Submissive to the might of verse
And the dear voice of harmony,

By none more deeply felt than Thee!”
-I sang; and lo! from pastimes virginal

She hastens to the tents

Of nature, and the lonely elements.

Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen;
But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green!
And, as if wishful to disarm

Or to repay the potent Charm,

She bears the stringèd lute of old romance,
That cheered the trellised arbour's privacy,

And soothed war-wearied knights in raftered hall.
How vivid, yet how delicate, her glee!

So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance;
So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne !

But the ringlets of that head
Why are they ungarlanded?
Why bedeck her temples less
Than the simplest shepherdess?
Is it not a brow inviting

Choicest flowers that ever breathed,
Which the myrtle would delight in
With Idalian rose enwreathed?

But her humility is well content

With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn)

FLOWER OF THE WINDS, beneath her bosom wornYet more for love than ornament.

Open, ye thickets! let her fly,

Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height! For She, to all but those who love her, shy, Would gladly vanish from a Stranger's sight;

Though where she is beloved and loves,

Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves;
Her happy spirit as a bird is free,
That rifles blossoms on a tree,

Turning them inside out with arch audacity.
Alas! how little can a moment show

Of an eye where feeling plays

In ten thousand dewy rays;

A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

-She stops-is fastened to that rivulet's side;

And there (while, with sedater mien,

O'er timid waters that have scarcely left
Their birth-place in the rocky cleft
She bends) at leisure may be seen
Features to old ideal grace allied,

Amid their smiles and dimples dignified

Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth;
The bland composure of eternal youth!

What more changeful than the sea?

But over his great tides

Fidelity presides;

And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he.
High is her aim as heaven above,

And wide as ether her good-will;

And, like the lowly reed, her love

Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill:

Insight as keen as frosty star

Is to her charity no bar,

Nor interrupts her frolic graces

When she is, far from these wild places,
Encircled by familiar faces.

O the charm that manners draw,

Nature, from thy genuine law!
If from what her hand would do,
Her voice would utter, there ensue

Aught untoward or unfit ;

She, in benign affections pure,

In self-forgetfulness secure,

Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance

A light unknown to tutored elegance :

Hers is not a cheek shame-stricken,

But her blushes are joy-flushes;

And the fault (if fault it be)
Only ministers to quicken
Laughter-loving gaiety,

And kindle sportive wit-

Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free

As if she knew that Oberon king of Faery

Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary,
And heard his viewless bands

Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands.

"Last of the Three, though eldest born, (81)
Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn
Touched by the skylark's earliest note,
Ere humbler gladness be afloat.

But whether in the semblance drest

Of Dawn-or Eve, fair vision of the west,
Come with each anxious hope subdued

By woman's gentle fortitude,

Each grief, through meekness, settling into rest.
-Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page

Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand

Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand
Among the glories of a happier age."

Her brow hath opened on me-see it there,
Brightening the umbrage of her hair ;
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
To be descried through shady groves.
Tenderest bloom is on her cheek;
Wish not for a richer streak;

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye;
But let thy love, upon that azure field
Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
Its homage offered up in purity.

What would'st thou more? In sunny glade,
Or under leaves of thickest shade,
Was such a stillness e'er diffused

Since earth grew calm while angels mused?
Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
To crush the mountain dew-drops-soon to melt
On the flower's breast; as if she felt

That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,

Call to the heart for inward listening

And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
Welcomed wisely; though a growth

Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,

As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on

And without wrong are cropped the marble tomb to strew. The Charm is over; the mute Phantoms gone,

Nor will return-but droop not, favoured Youth;

The apparition that before thee shone

Obeyed a summons covetous of truth.

From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,

And one of the bright Three become thy happy Bride.

THE WISHING-GATE.

Composed 1828.

Published 1829.

In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the old high-way leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue. (82)

HOPE rules a land for ever green :

All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen

Are confident and gay;

Clouds at her bidding disappear;

Points she to aught?—the bliss draws near,
And Fancy smooths the way.

Not such the land of Wishes-there

Dwell fruitless day-dreams, lawless prayer,

And thoughts with things at strife ;

Yet how forlorn, should ye depart,

Ye superstitions of the heart,
How poor, were human life!

When magic lore abjured its might,
Ye did not forfeit one dear right,

One tender claim abate;