Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending,
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;

There while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, oh never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever ;
Blessing shall hallow it,-
Never, oh never.

CXLIII.

A

SONG.

WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, 'Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

CXLIV.

L

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG.

OOK not thou on beauty's charming,Sit thou still when kings are arming,— Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,Speak not when the people listens,— Stop thine ear against the singer,— From the red gold keep thy finger,Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.

CXLV.

A

SONG.

H! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,

The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born cavalier.

The star of love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;

And high and low the influence know— But where is County Guy?