The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 27

"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 and 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 hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers 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 E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold 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 pa.s.s 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 nevermore will be.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS.

Oh, fairest of the rural maids!

Thy birth was in the forest shades; Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, Were all that met thine infant eye.

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, Were ever in the sylvan wild; And all the beauty of the place Is in thy heart and on thy face.

The twilight of the trees and rocks Is in the light shade of thy locks; Thy step is as the wind, that weaves Its playful way among the leaves.

Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen; Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

The forest depths, by foot impressed, Are not more sinless than thy breast; The holy peace, that fills the air Of those calm solitudes, is there.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

There be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stockdove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen; Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon th.o.r.n.y den; Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-- I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow.

There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays.

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-- Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

ROBERT BURNS.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

TRIUMPH OF CHARIS.

See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth!

Each that draws is a swan, or a dove, And well the car, Love guideth.

As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty, And, enamored, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.

Do but look on her eyes! they do light All that Love's world compriseth; Do but look on her hair! it is bright As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark--her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her!

And from her arched brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there, triumphs to the life, All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it?

Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath s.m.u.tched it?

Have you felt the wool of the beaver?

Or swan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier?

Or nard i' the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she!

BEN JONSON.