That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose! Glad moment is it when the throng The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus out, Met by the rainbow's form divine, Issuing from her cloudy shrine ;· I sang; and lo! from pastimes virginal Of nature, and the lonely elements. Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen, And 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, So tripped the Muse, inventress of the dance; But the ringlets of that head Is it not a brow inviting Choicest flowers that ever breathed, With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn) 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 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 Amid their smiles and dimples dignified — 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, Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill; Is to her charity no bar, Nor interrupts her frolic graces When she is, far from these wild places, O the charm that manners draw, She, in benign affections pure, 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 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, Reveal thyself, like pensive morn, But whether in the semblance drest Of dawn - or eve, fair vision of the west, 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, Nor dread the depth of meditative eye; What would'st thou more? In sunny glade Since earth grew calm while angels mused? That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue, Which the careless shepherd sleeps on, As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on, The charm is over; the mute phantoms gone, From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide XXVI. HER eyes are wild, her head is bare, Or else she were alone; And underneath the hay-stack warm, She talked and sung the woods among, "Sweet Babe! they say that I am mad, |