Volume I Part 73 (1/2)

When youth had flown did hope still bless Thy goings--or the cheerfulness Of innocence survive to mitigate distress?

VI But from our course why turn--to tread A way with shadows overspread; Where what we gladliest would believe Is feared as what may most deceive?

Bright Spirit, not with amaranth crowned But heath-bells from thy native ground, Time cannot thin thy flowing hair, Nor take one ray of light from Thee; For in my Fancy thou dost share The gift of immortality; And there shall bloom, with Thee allied, The Votaress by Lugano's side; And that intrepid Nymph, on Uri's steep descried!

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

BLACKMWORE MAIDENS

The primrwose in the sheade do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The cote where streams do run; An' where do pretty maidens grow An' blow, but where the tower Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you could zee their comely gait, An' pretty feaces' smiles, A-trippen on so light o' waight, An' steppen off the stiles; A-gwain to church, as bells do swing An' ring within the tower, You'd own the pretty maidens' pleace Is Blackmwore by the Stour.

If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An' all the farmers' housen showed Their daughters at the door; You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-- ”Here, come: 'ithin an hour You'll vind ten maidens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour.”

An' if you looked 'ithin their door, To zee em in their pleace, A-doen housework up avore Their smilen mother's feace; You'd cry--”Why if a man would wive An' thrive, 'ithout a dower, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour.”

As I upon my road did pa.s.s A school-house back in May, There out upon the beaten gra.s.s Wer maidens at their play; An' as the pretty souls did tweil An' smile, I cried, ”The flower O' beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour.”

William Barnes [1801-1886]

A PORTRAIT ”One name is Elizabeth” Ben Jonson

I will paint her as I see her.

Ten times have the lilies blown Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes unders.h.i.+ne, Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,-- Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure-- Taking love for her chief pleasure.

Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly--just as she, When she nestles at your knee.

Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,-- Watering flowers, or reading books.

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels (you feel) the sun.