Page images

I have walk'd through wildernesses dreary,

And today my heart is


Had I now the soul of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Up with me, up with me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky!
Joyous as Morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest: And, though little troubled with sloth,

Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth

To be such a Traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver!

With a soul as strong as a mountain River, Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both!
Hearing thee, or else some other,
As merry a Brother,

I on the earth will go plodding on,

By myself, chearfully, till the day is done.


"With how sad steps, O Moon thou climb'st the sky,
How silently, and with how wan a face!” *
Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high
Running among the clouds a Wood-nymph's race?
Unhappy Nuns, whose common breath's a sigh
Which they would stifle, move at such a pace!
The Northern Wind, to call thee to the chace,
Must blow tonight his bugle horn. Had I


power of Merlin, Goddess! this should be; And all the Stars, now shrouded up in heaven,

Should sally forth to keep thee company.

What strife would then be yours, fair Creatures, driv❜n
Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee!
But, Cynthia, should to Thee the palm be giv'n,
Queen both for beauty and for majesty.

* From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.


The Post-boy drove with fierce career,

For threat'ning clouds the moon had drown'd; When suddenly I seem'd to hear

A moan, a lamentable sound.

As if the wind blew many ways

I heard the sound, and more and more:

It seem'd to follow with the Chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the Boy call'd out,
He stopp'd his horses at the word;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it could be heard.

The Boy then smack'd his whip, and fast The horses scamper'd through the rain; And soon I heard upon the blast

The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,

"What can it be, this piteous moan?"

And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the Chaise, alone.


My Cloak!" the word was last and first,

And loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her very heart would burst;

And down from off the Chaise she leapt.

« PreviousContinue »