Though of a lineage once abhorred, Nor yet redeemed from scorn.
Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite Of poverty and wrong,
Doth here preserve a living light,
From Hebrew fountains sprung; That gives this ragged group to cast Around the dell a gleam
Of Palestine, of glory past,
And proud Jerusalem !
AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these grey rocks; that household lawn; Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake; This little bay; a quiet road That holds in shelter thy Abode—
In truth together do ye seem Like something fashioned in a dream; Such Forms as from their covert peep When earthly cares are laid asleep! But, O fair Creature! in the light Of common day, so heavenly bright, I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, I bless thee with a human heart; God shield thee to thy latest years! Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers; And yet my eyes are filled with tears. With earnest feeling I shall pray For thee when I am far away: For never saw I mien, or face, In which more plainly I could trace Benignity and home-bred sense Ripening in perfect innocence.
Here scattered, like a random seed, Remote from men, Thou dost not need The embarrassed look of shy distress, And maidenly shamefacedness: Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear The freedom of a Mountaineer : A face with gladness overspread! Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! And seemliness complete, that sways Thy courtesies, about thee plays; With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach Of thy few words of English speech: A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife That gives thy gestures grace and life! So have I, not unmoved in mind, Seen birds of tempest-loving kind— Thus beating up against the wind. What hand but would a garland cull For thee who art so beautiful? O happy pleasure! here to dwell Beside thee in some heathy dell; Adopt your homely ways, and dress, A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess ! But I could frame a wish for thee More like a grave reality :
Thou art to me but as a wave
Of the wild sea; and I would have Some claim upon thee, if I could, Though but of common neighbourhood. What joy to hear thee, and to see!
Thy elder Brother I would be,
Thy Father-anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place. Joy have I had; and going hence I bear away my recompence. In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes : Then, why should I be loth to stir? I feel this place was made for her; To give new pleasure like the past, Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part: For I, methinks, till I grow old, As fair before me shall behold, As I do now, the cabin small, The lake, the bay, the waterfall; And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
THE SOLITARY REAPER
BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
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.
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