TURN! turn! for my cheeks they burn,

Turn by the vale, my Harry!

Fill, pail! Fill, pail!

He's turned by the vale

And there by the stile waits Harry.
Fill, fill!—fill, pail—fill!

For there by the stile waits Harry.

The world may go round-the world may stand still, But I can milk and marry.

Oh, if we two 'neath yonder yew Stood down there now by the water,

I know who'd carry me over the ford As brave as a soldier-proud as a lord, Though I don't live over the water!

"Whew! Whew!"-he's whistling through The song of "The Farmer's Daughter!"

Give down! Give down-my crumpled brown!
He shall not take the road to town,

For I'll meet him beyond the water.

So give down!-give down-my crumpled brown,
And send me to my Harry!

The folk o' towns may have silk gowns,
But I can milk and marry!

"Whew! Whew!"-he's whistled through,
My Harry, my lad, my lover!

Set the suns and fall the dewHeigho! merry world-what's to do

That you're smiling over and over,Upon the hill and down in the dale,Over the tree-tops,-along the vale,Smiling over and over?

O world, have you ever a lover?

You were so dull and cold just now,

O world, have you ever a lover?

I couldn't see a leaf on the tree,

And now I count them-one, two, three,

Count them over and over,—

Leaf from leaf like lips apart—

Like lips apart for a lover,

And the hill-side beats with my beating heart,
And the apple-tree blushed all over,

And the May-bough touched me and made me start,
And the wind breathes warm like a lover.

Pull, pull! and the pail is full,

And milking's done and over;

Who wouldn't sit here under the tree?

What a fair, fair thing a green field to see!

With cattle, and sky, and clover!

Brim, brim to the rim. Ah me!

I've set my pail on the daisies!

It seems so light! Can the sun be set?
The dew must be heavy,-my cheeks are wet!
I could cry to have hurt the daisies!
Harry is near! Harry is near!
My heart beats quick as if he were here,
My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet,
He hasn't uttered a word as yet,

But the air is astir with his praises,
My Harry!-the air is astir with your praises.

UNVEILED.

I CANNOT tell when first I saw her face ;—
Was it athwart a sunset on the sea,

When the huge billows heaved tumultuously,
Or in the quiet of some woodland place,
Wrapped by the shadowy boon

Of breezeless verdures from the summer noon?
Or likelier still, in a rock-girdled dell

Between vast mountains, while the midnight Hour
Blossomed above me like a shining Flower,
Whose star-wrought petals turned the fields of space
To one great garden of mysterious light?

Vain! vain! I cannot tell

When first the beauty and majestic might
Of her calm presence, bore my soul apart
From all low issues of the groveling world ;-
About me their own peace and grandeur furled,—
Filling the conscious heart

With vague, sweet wisdom drawn from earth or sky,—
Secrets that glance toward Eternity,-

Visions divine, and thoughts ineffable!

But ever since that immemorial day,

A steadfast flame hath burned in brain and blood,
Urging me onward in the perilous search

For sacred haunts our queenly mother loves ;—
By field and flood,

Thro' neighboring realms, and regions far away,
Have I not followed, followed where She led,
Tracking wild rivers to their fountain head,
And wilder desert spaces, mournful, vast,
Where Nature fronting her inscrutable past,
Holds bleak communion only with the dead;
Yearning meanwhile, for pinions like a dove's,
To waft me further still,

Beyond the compass of the unwinged will;
Yea; waft me northward, southward, east, or west,
By fabled isles, and undiscovered lands,
To where enthroned upon his mountain-perch,
The sovereign Eagle stands,

Guarding the unfledged eaglets in their nest,
Above the thunders of the sea and storm?

Oh! sometimes by the fire
Of holy passion, in me, all subdued,
And melted to a mortal woman's mood,
Tender and warm,-
She, from her goddess height,

In gracious answer to my soul's desire,
Descending softly, lifts her Isis veil,
To bend on me the untranslated light
Of fathomless eyes, and brow divinely pale :-

The earth all-seeing;-not her stateliest forms
Alone engrossed me, nor her sounds of power;
Mountains and oceans, and the rage of storms;
Fierce cataracts hurled from awful steep to steep-
Or, the gray water-spouts, that whirling tower

Along the darkened bosom of the deep;

But all fair, fairy forms; all vital things,

That breathe or blossom 'midst our bounteous springs;

On dewy hill-slopes pausing, fondly talked

With the coy wind-flower, and the grasses brown,—
That in a subtle language of their own

(Caught from the spirits of the wandering breeze),—
Quaintly responded;-while the heavens looked down.
As graciously on these

Titania growths, as on sublimer shapes
Of century-molded continents, that bemock
Alike the earthquake's, and the billows' shock
By Orient inlands and cold ocean capes!

The giant constellations rose and set:-
I knew them all, and worshiped all I knew ;-
Yet, from their empire in the pregnant Blue,—
Sweeping from planet-orbits to faint bars.
Of nebulous cloud, beyond the range of stars,-
I turned to worship with a heart as true,
Long mosses drooping from the cypress-tree;
The virginal vines that stretched remotely dim,
From forest limb to limb;

Net-work of golden ferns, whose tracery weaves
In lingering twilights of warm August eves,
Ethereal frescoes, pictures fugitive,

Drawn on the flickering and fair-foliaged wall
Of the dense forest, ere the night shades fall:
Rushes rock-tangled, whose mixed colors live
In the pure moisture by a fountain's brim;
The sylph-like reeds, wave-born, that to and fro
Move ever to the waters' rhythmical flow,
Blent with the humming of the wild-wood bee,
And the winds' under thrills of mystery;

The twinkling "ground-stars," full of modest cheer,
Each her cerulean cup

In humble supplication lifting up,

To catch whate'er the kindly heavens may give
Of flooded sunshine, or celestial dew;-
And even when self-poised in airy grace,
Their phantom lightness stirs

Through glistening shadows of a secret place—
The silvery-tinted gossamers;-

For thus hath Nature taught amid her ALL,—
The complex miracles of land and sea,
And infinite marvels of the infinite air,—
No life is trivial, no creation small!

Ever, I walk the earth,

As one whose spiritual ear

Is strangely purged and purified to hear
Its multitudinous voice;-from the shore
Whereon the savage Arctic surges roar,
And the stupendous bass of choral waves

Thunders o'er "wandering graves,"
From warrior-winds whose viewless cohorts charge
The banded mists through Cloudland's vaporous dearth,—
Pealing their battle-bugles round the marge

Of dreary fen and desolated moor;

VOL XV.-26.