Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.
Down would he sit; and without strength or power
Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay ;
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;
For happier soul no living creature has
Than he had, being here the long day through.
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
Some thought far worse of him, and judged him

wrong;

But verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight
along,

With him there often walked, in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable Man with large gray eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear,
Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy;

Profound his forehead was, though not severe;
Yet some did think that he had little business

here:

Sweet Heaven forefend! his was a lawful right;
Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;

His limbs would toss about him with delight,
Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy.
Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy
To banish listlessness and irksome care;

He would have taught you how you might employ
Yourself; and many did to him repair,
And certes not in vain; he had inventions rare.

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried:

Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,
Made, to his ear attentively applied,

A pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
Glasses he had, that little things display,

The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,
A mailèd angel on a battle-day;

The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold,

And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold.

He would entice that other Man to hear

His music, and to view his imagery:

And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear: No livelier love in such a place could be:

There did they dwell, from earthly labor free,

As happy spirits as were ever seen;

If but a bird, to keep them company,

Or butterfly, sat down, they were, I ween,

As pleased as if the same had been a maiden queen.

1802.

VI.

LOUISA.

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN EXCURSION

I MET Louisa in the shade,

And, having seen that lovely maid,

Why should I fear to say

That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong,
And down the rocks can leap along
Like rivulets in May?

She loves her fire, her cottage home;
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam
In weather rough and bleak;

And when against the wind she strains,
O might I kiss the mountain rains

That sparkle on her cheek!

Take all that's mine "beneath the moon,"

If I with her but half a noon

May sit beneath the walls

Of some old cave, or mossy nook,
When up she winds along the brook
To hunt the waterfalls.

VII.

STRANGE fits of passion have I known:
And I will dare to tell,

But in the Lover's ear alone,

What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath an evening moon.

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;

And, as we climbed the hill,

The sinking moon to Lucy's cot

Came near, and nearer still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

And all the while my eyes I kept

On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped:

When down behind the cottage roof,
At once, the bright moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide Into a Lover's head!

"O mercy!" to myself I cried,

"If Lucy should be dead!

1799.

VIII.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise
very few to love:

And

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ;

But she is in her grave, and oh!

The difference to me!