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WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plant
Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant-
Speak-though this soft warm heart, once free to hold
Than a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow
Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know !
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
Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse: and with me
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
To kindle or restrain.
She shall be sportive as the fawn
Of mute insensate things.
The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the Storm
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
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
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,
SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
A Maid whom there were none to praise
A violet by a mossy stone
She lived unknown, and few could know
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!
A SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:
She seemed a thing that could not feel
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.
I TRAVELLED among unknown men,
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!
Among thy mountains did I feel
The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.
'Tis said, that some have died for love :
And here and there a church-yard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground,
Because the wretched man himself had slain,
His love was such a grievous pain.
And there is one whom I five years have known ; He dwells alone
Upon Helvellyn's side:
He loved the pretty Barbara died;
And thus he makes his moan:
Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid
Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak ! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,
That in some other way yon smoke