Till we depart intrude not here:

That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose.

Glad moment is it when the throng
Of warblers in full concert strong
Strive, and not vainly strive to rout

The lagging shower, and force coy Phœbus out,—

Met by the rainbow's form divine,

Issuing from her cloudy shrine :
So may the thrillings of the lyre
Prevail to further our desire,

While to these shades a sister Nymph I call.

Come, if the notes thine ear may pierce,
Come, Youngest of the Lovely Three!
Submissive to the might of Verse
And the dear voice of Harmony,

By none more deeply felt than thee.

-I sang; and lo! from pastimes virginal

She hastens to the tents

Of Nature and the lonely elements.

Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen; But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green! And, as if wishful to disarm

Or to repay the potent Charm,

She bears the stringed lute of old Romance,
That cheer'd the trellis'd arbour's privacy,

And soothed war-wearied knights in rafter'd hall.
How vivid, yet how delicate her glee!

So tripp'd the Muse, inventress of the dance :
So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne.

But the ringlets of that head,
Why are they ungarlanded?
Why bedeck her temples less
Than the simplest shepherdess ?

Is it not a brow inviting

Choicest flowers that ever breathed,
Which the myrtle would delight in,
With Idalian rose enwreathed?
But her humility is well content

With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn !)—
Flower-of-the-winds, beneath her bosom worn,
But more for love than ornament.

Open, ye thickets! let her fly,

Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height:
For she, to all but those who love her shy,
Would gladly vanish from a stranger's sight;
Though where she is beloved and loves

Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves :
Her happy spirit as a bird is free
That rifles blossoms on a tree,

Turning them inside out with arch audacity.
Alas! how little can a moment show

Of an eye where feeling plays

In ten thousand dewy rays;

A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!
She stops,-is fasten'd to that rivulet's side;
And there (while with sedater mien
O'er timid waters that have scarcely left
Their birth-place in the rocky cleft
She bends) at leisure may be seen
Features, to old ideal grace allied,
Amid their smiles and dimples dignified:

Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth,

The bland composure of eternal youth!

What more changeful than the sea?

But over his great tides

Fidelity presides :

And this light-hearted Maiden constant is as he.

High is her aim as heaven above,

And wide as ether her good-will;

And, like the lowly reed, her love

Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill;
Insight as keen as frosty star

Is to her charity no bar,

Nor interrupts her frolic graces

When she is, far from these wild places,
Encircled by familiar faces.

O the charm that manners draw,
Nature! from thy genuine law :
If from what her hand would do,
Her voice would utter, aught ensue
Untoward or unfit,

She in benign affections pure,

In self-forgetfulness secure,

Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance

A light unknown to tutor'd elegance :

Hers is not a cheek shame-stricken;

But her blushes are joy-flushes,

And the fault, if fault it be,
Only ministers to quicken
Laughter-loving gaiety,

And kindle sportive wit,—

Leaving this Daughter of the Mountains free
As if she knew that Oberon, King of Faery,

Had cross'd her purpose with some vague vagary,
And heard his viewless bands

Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands.

-Last of the Three, though eldest born!
Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn
Touch'd by the skylark's earliest note,
Ere humbler gladness be afloat.
But whether in the semblance dress'd

Of Dawn, or Eve (fair Vision of the West),
Come with each anxious hope subdued

By woman's gentle fortitude,

Each grief through meekness settling into rest!
Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page
Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand

Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand
Among the glories of a happier age.

Her brow hath open'd on me see it there
Brightening the umbrage of her hair!
So gleams the crescent moon, that loves
To be descried through shady groves.
Tenderest bloom is on her cheek:
Wish not for a richer streak,

Nor dread the depth of meditative eye!
But let thy love, upon that azure field
Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield
Its homage, offer'd up in purity!

What wouldst thou more? In sunny glade,
Or under leaves of thickest shade,
Was such a stillness e'er diffused

Since earth grew calm while angels mused?
Softly she treads, as if her foot were loath
To crush the mountain dew-drops, soon to melt
On the flower's breast,-as if she felt

That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening;

And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true
Welcomed wisely, though a growth

Which the careless shepherd sleeps on,

As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on,

And without wrong are cropp'd the marble tomb to strew.

The Charm is over! the mute Phantoms gone,

Nor will return! But droop not, favour'd Youth!

The apparition that before thee shone

Obey'd a summons covetous of truth.

From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide
To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried,

And one of the Bright Three become thy happy Bride.

NATURAL PIETY.

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:

So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,

So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man:
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

SONNETS.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free!
The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea:
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder-everlastingly.

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.

This world is too much with us: late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see of Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away,—
-a sordid boon!