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 brook'd, 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 recompense.
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 chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from a 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 listen'd till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S

WATER.

THE Cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,

And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

!

The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anou:
There's joy in the mountains;

There's life in the fountains;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gono!

GIPSIES.

YET are they here-the same unbroken knot
Of human beings, in the self-same spot!
Men, women, children, yea the frame
Of the whole spectacle the same!
Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light,
Now deep and red, the colouring of night,
That on their gipsy-faces falls,

Their bed of straw and blanket-walls.

Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I
Have been a traveller under open sky,

Much witnessing of change and cheer-
Yet as I left I find them here!'

The weary sun betook himself to rest,
Then issued vesper from the fulgent west,
Outshining like a visible god

The glorious path in which he trod.
And now, ascending, after one dark hour,
And one night's diminution of her power,
Behold the mighty moon! this way
She looks as if at them-but they
Regard not her. Oh, better wrong and strife,
Better vain deeds, or evil, than such life!
The silent heavens have goings-on;

The stars have tasks-but these have none !

BEGGARS.

SHE had a tall man's height, or more;
No bonnet screen'd her from the heat;
A long drab-colour'd cloak she wore,
A mantle reaching to her feet:

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,

Such figure had I never seen:

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.

Before me begging did she stand,

Pouring out sorrows like a sea;

Grief after grief. On English land

Such woes I knew could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her; for the creature

Was beautiful to see; "a weed of glorious feature!'

I left her, and pursued my way;

And soon before me did espy
A pair of little boys at play,

Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller follow'd with his hat in hand,

Wreath'd round with yellow flowers, the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown,

With leaves of laurel stuck about:
And they both follow'd up and down,

Each whooping with a merry shout:

Two brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old;

And like that woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and lo!
Each ready with a plaintive whine;
Said I, "Not half an hour ago

Your mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answer'd, "she is dead."

'Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, sir, many a day."

"Sweet boys, you're telling me a lie;
It was your mother, as I say-"

And in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew.

Be the various poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow; li pas ticular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton, beginning

"Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow !"-)
FROM Stirling Castle we had seen
The mazy Forth unravell'd;

Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay,
And with the Tweed had travell'd;
And, when we came to Clovenford,
Then said my "winsome Marrow,"
"Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside,
And see the Braes of Yarrow."
"Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town,
Who have been buying, selling,
Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own,
Each maiden to her dwelling!
On Yarrow's banks let herons feed,
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow!
But we will downwards with the Tweed,
Nor turn aside to Yarrow.

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs,
Both lying right before us;

And Dryburgh, where with chiming Tweed
The lintwhites sing in chorus;

There's pleasant Teviotdale, a land
Made blithe with plough and harrow:

Why throw away a needful day
To go in search of Yarrow?