The Lucy poems-V

A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course,

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

The Lucy poems-IV

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 

Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 

This child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own.

 

'Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain.

 

'She shall be sportive as the fawn 

That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the breathing balm, 

And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things.

 

'The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her; for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the storm 

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy.

 

'The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake -- The work was done --

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

The Lucy poems-III

I travell'd among unknown men, 

In lands beyond the sea; 

Nor, England! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee.

 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 

A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more.

Among the mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire.

 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, 

The bowers where Lucy play'd; 

And thine too is the last green field 

That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

The Lucy poems-II

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

 

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!

The Lucy poems-I

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 look'd every day 

Fresh as a rose in June, 

I to her cottage bent my way, 

Beneath an evening moon. 

Upon the moon I fix'd my eye, 

All over the wide lea; 

With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 

And now we reach'd the orchard-plot; 

And, as we climb'd 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 stopp'd: 

When down behind the cottage roof, 

At once, the bright moon dropp'd. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 

Into a lover's head! 

'O mercy!' to myself I cried, 

'If Lucy should be dead!'

We Are Seven

A simple Child,


That lightly draws its breath,


And feels its life in every limb,


What should it know of death?






I met a little cottage Girl:


She was eight years old, she said;


Her hair was thick with many a curl


That clustered round her head.






She had a rustic, woodland air,


And she was wildly clad:


Her eyes were fair, and very fair;


—Her beauty made me glad.






“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,


How many may you be?”


“How many? Seven in all,” she said,


And wondering looked at me.






“And where are they? I pray you tell.”


She answered, “Seven are we;


And two of us at Conway dwell,


And two are gone to sea.






“Two of us in the church-yard lie,


My sister and my brother;


And, in the church-yard cottage, I


Dwell near them with my mother.”






“You say that two at Conway dwell,


And two are gone to sea,


Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,


Sweet Maid, how this may be.”






Then did the little Maid reply,


“Seven boys and girls are we;


Two of us in the church-yard lie,


Beneath the church-yard tree.”






“You run about, my little Maid,


Your limbs they are alive;


If two are in the church-yard laid,


Then ye are only five.”






“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”


The little Maid replied,


“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,


And they are side by side.






“My stockings there I often knit,


My kerchief there I hem;


And there upon the ground I sit,


And sing a song to them.






“And often after sun-set, Sir,


When it is light and fair,


I take my little porringer,


And eat my supper there.






“The first that died was sister Jane;


In bed she moaning lay,


Till God released her of her pain;


And then she went away.






“So in the church-yard she was laid;


And, when the grass was dry,


Together round her grave we played,


My brother John and I.






“And when the ground was white with snow,


And I could run and slide,


My brother John was forced to go,


And he lies by her side.”






“How many are you, then,” said I,


“If they two are in heaven?”


Quick was the little Maid’s reply,


“O Master! we are seven.”






“But they are dead; those two are dead!


Their spirits are in heaven!”


’Twas throwing words away; for still


The little Maid would have her will,


And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

The Tables Turned

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;


Or surely you'll grow double:


Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;


Why all this toil and trouble?






The sun above the mountain's head,


A freshening lustre mellow


Through all the long green fields has spread,


His first sweet evening yellow.






Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:


Come, hear the woodland linnet,


How sweet his music! on my life,


There's more of wisdom in it.






And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!


He, too, is no mean preacher:


Come forth into the light of things,


Let Nature be your teacher.






She has a world of ready wealth,


Our minds and hearts to bless—


Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,


Truth breathed by cheerfulness.






One impulse from a vernal wood


May teach you more of man,


Of moral evil and of good,


Than all the sages can.






Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;


Our meddling intellect


Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—


We murder to dissect.






Enough of Science and of Art;


Close up those barren leaves;


Come forth, and bring with you a heart


That watches and receives.