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WRITTEN IN MARCH,
While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water.
THE Cock is crowing,
The small birds twitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
On the top of the bare hill;
There's joy in the mountains;
The rain is over and gone!
YET are they here?-the same unbroken knot
Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.
Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone
Have been a Traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
The stars have tasks. but these have none !
Wild outcasts of society!
SHE had a tall Man's height, or more ;
A long drab-coloured Cloak she wore,
What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.
In all my walks, through field or town,
Her face was of Egyptian brown:
Fit person was she for a Queen,
To head those ancient Amazonian files :
Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.