That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose! Glad moment is it when the throng While to these shades a Nymph I call, I sang; and lo! from pastimes virginal Of nature, and the lonely elements. Or to repay the potent charm, She bears the stringèd lute of old romance, Is it not a brow inviting But her humility is well content 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, as free As bird 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, 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, Insight as keen as frosty star Is to her charity no bar, Encircled by familiar faces. O the charm that manners draw, In self-forgetfulness secure, Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance A light unknown to tutored elegance: Her's is not a cheek shame-stricken, But her blushes are joy-flushes And the fault (if fault it be) And kindle sportive wit Leaving this Daughter of the mountains free Had crossed her purpose with some quaint vagary, Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands. "Last of the Three, though eldest born, 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 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, The apparition that before thee shone Obeyed a summons covetous of truth. From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide And one of the bright Three become thy happy Bride! XXVI. Her eyes are wild, her head is bare, "Sweet Babe! they say that I am mad, |