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Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine too is the last green field
That Lucy's eyes surveyed.


THERE is a change, and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count !
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love, it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry :
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.

Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.


LET other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;

But thou art no such perfect thing:

Rejoice that thou art not!

Heed not tho' none should call thee fair;

So, Mary, let it be

If nought in loveliness compare

With what thou art to me.

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
Whose veil is unremoved

Till heart with heart in concord beats,
And the lover is beloved.



WHAT heavenly smiles! O Lady mine,
Through this very heart they shine;
And, if my brow gives back their light,
Do thou look gladly on the sight;
As the clear moon with modest pride
Beholds her own bright beams
Reflected from the mountain's side
And from the headlong streams.


O DEARER far than light and life are dear,
Full oft our human foresight I deplore;
Trembling, through my unworthiness, with fear
That friends, by death disjoined, may meet no more!

Misgivings, hard to vanquish or control,
Mix with the day, and cross the hour of rest;
While all the future, for thy purer soul,
With "sober certainties" of love is blest.

If a faint sigh, not meant for human ear,
Tells that these words thy humbleness offend;
Yet bear me up, else faltering in the rear
Of a steep march: support me to the end.

Peace settles where the intellect is meek,
And love is dutiful in thought and deed;

Through thee communion with that Love I seek:
The faith Heaven strengthens where he moulds the


IN distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:
Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad;
And in his arms a lamb he had.

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide :
Then with his coat he made essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, "My friend,
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.

To-day I fetched him from the rock;
He is the last of all my flock.

"When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,
Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;

Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.

"Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I raised,
As fine a flock as ever grazed!

Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
This lusty lamb of all my store

Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we die,

And perish all of poverty.

"Six children, Sir! had I to feed ;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the parish asked relief.
They said, I was a wealthy man ;
My sheep upon the uplands fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.

'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

"I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me, it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me,
To see the end of all my gains,

The pretty flock which I had reared

With all my care and pains,

To see it melt like snow away,
For me it was a woeful day.

Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! It was a vein that never stopped,

Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.

Till thirty were not left alive

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;

And I may say that many a time

I wished they all were gone,

Reckless of what might come at last
Were but the bitter struggle past.

"To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;
And crazily and wearily

I went my work about;

And oft was moved to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

"Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;

God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;

And every week and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

"They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe;
And then at last from three to two;
And, of my fifty, yesterday

I had but only one:

And here it lies upon my arm,

Alas! and I have none;

To-day I fetched it from the rock;

It is the last of all my flock."


ONE morning (raw it was and wet,

A foggy day in winter time)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime :

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