When will my sentence be reversed?
I only pray to know the worst ;
And wish as if my heart would burst.

O weary struggle! silent years
Tell seemingly no doubtful tale;
And yet they leave it short, and fears
And hopes are strong and will prevail.
My calmest faith escapes not pain;
And, feeling that the hope is vain,
I think that he will come again.

XIII.

'Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a churchyard grave is found In the cold north's unhallowed ground,

Because the wretched man himself had slain,

His love was such a grievous pain.

And there is one whom I five years have known:

He dwells alone

Upon Helvellyn's side:

He loved,

the pretty Barbara died;

And thus he makes his moan:

Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid

When thus his moan he made:

66

"O nove, thou Cottage, from behind that oak!

Or let the aged tree uprooted lie,

That in some other way yon smoke
May mount into the sky!

The clouds pass on; they from the heavens depart:

I look, the sky is empty space;

I know not what I trace;

But when I cease to look, my hand is on my

heart

"O, what a weight is in these shades! Ye leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it cease? Your sound my heart of rest bereaves,

It robs my heart of peace.

Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free,

Into yon row of willows flit,

Upon that alder sit;

Or sing another song, or choose another tree.

"Roll back, sweet Rill! back to thy mountain

bounds,

And there for ever be thy waters chained!

For thou dost haunt the air with sounds

That cannot be sustained;

If still beneath that pine-tree's ragged bough
Headlong yon waterfall must come,

O let it then be dumb!

Beanything, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now.

Thou Eglantine, so bright with sunny showers, Proud as a rainbow spanning half the vale,

Thou one fair shrub, O, shed thy flowers,
And stir not in the gale!

For thus to see thee nodding in the air,

To see thy arch thus stretch and bend,
Thus rise and thus descend,

Disturbs me till the sight is more than I can bear."

The Man who makes this feverish complaint
Is one of giant stature, who could dance
Equipped from head to foot in iron mail.
Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine
To store up kindred hours for me, thy face
Turn from me, gentle Love! nor let me walk
Within the sound of Emma's voice, nor know
Such happiness as I have known to day.

1800.

XIV.

A COMPLAINT.

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.

XV.

1806

то

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 though none should call thee fair;

So, Mary, let it be

If naught 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. .

XVI.

YES! thou art fair, yet be not moved
To scorn the declaration,

That sometimes I in thee have loved
My fancy's own creation.

Imagination needs must stir;

Dear Maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

Be pleased that Nature made thee fit
To feed my heart's devotion,
By laws to which all forms submit,
In sky, air, earth, and ocean.

1824

XVII.

How rich that forehead's calm expanse!

How bright that heaven-directed glance!

Waft her to glory, wingèd Powers, Ere sorrow be renewed,