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A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles,
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command

And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

W. Wordstuvorth


She is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be ;
Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.
() then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold,

To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye :
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.

H. Coleridge


I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden ;
Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burthen thine.
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ;
Thou needest not fear mine ;
Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

P. B. Shelley


She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye! -Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

W. Wordsworth


I travell’d among unknown men

In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England ! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time ; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel

Beside an English fire.
Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceald

The bowers where Lucy play'd ;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes survey'di.

IV. IVoris worth




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.
‘Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse : and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade anıl bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
‘She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.


• The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her ; for her the willow bend ;
Nor shall she fail to see
Ev'n 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
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 never more will be.

W. Wordsworth


A slumber did my spirit seal ;

I had no human fears :
She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force ;

She neither hears nor sees ;
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

W. Wordsworth CCXXIV


I meet thy pensive, moonlight face ;

Thy thrilling voice I hear;
And former hours and scenes retrace,

Too fleeting, and too dear!
Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,

Though none is nigh to share ;
And life has nought beside for me

So sweet as this despair.
There are crush'd hearts that will not break ;

And mine, methinks, is one ;
Or thus I should not weep and wake,

And thou to slumber gone.
I little thought it thus could be

In days more sad and fair-
That earth could have a place for me,

And thou no longer there.
Yet death cannot our hearts divide,

Or make thee less my own :
'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side

Than watching here alone. Yet never, never can we part,

While Memory holds her reign : Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart, Till we shall meet again.

H. F. Lyte



A Chieftain to the Highlands bound
Cries Boatman, do not tarry !
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry!'

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