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النشر الإلكتروني

66

SONG.

[FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE."]

OLDIER, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Dream of battle-fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall

breaking;

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense with slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude'sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed's champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,

Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here.
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadron's tramping.

SCOTT.

THE LADY'S GRAVE.

HEY laid my lady in her grave, My lady with the deep blue eye; 'Twas not in sainted ground

Where crosses stand around,

But by the river's side, where the green sedges

wave.

They had not seen that lady's smile
Ere her unhappy days were come;
Or the last bed of rest,

Hallow'd by prayer and priest,

Would not have been withheld, as if from something vile.

They would have loved that deep blue eye,
Because it told a tale of heav'n;

And in her candid look

Read, as in holy book,

Immortal things and pure, belonging to the sky.

But by the river's sedgy brink,

Where her cold corse was floating found,
They hid my lady fair

Unbless'd by priest or pray'r,

Where yellow iris and pale reeds the water drink.

The river lily's humid flow'r,
And cresses with their cold green leaf,

In place of tomb, denied

By harsh and impious pride,

Grow there; and sounds from heav'n sweep by at

evening hour.

MARY BODDINGTON.

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TO THE CUCKOO.

BLITHE New-comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear,

That seems to fill the whole air's space,
As loud far off as near.

Though babbling only to the Vale,

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale
Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listen'd to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still long'd for, never seen.

And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessed Bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place;

That is fit home for Thee!

WORDSWORTH.

IN THE STILLNESS O' THE NIGHT.

Ο

[DORSET DIALECT.]

V all the housen1 o' the pliace,

There's oone2 wher I da3 like to call

By dae ar night the best ov all,

To zee my Fanny's smilèn fiace;
An' dere1 the stiately tress da grow,
A-rockèn as the win' da blow,
While she da sweetly sleep below,
In the stillness o' the night.

6

8

An' dere at evemen,5 I da goo,
A-hoppèn auver ghiates' an' bars,
By twinklen light o' winter stars,
When snow da clumper to my shoe;
An' zometimes we da slyly catch
A chat an hour upon the stratch,9
An' piart wi' whispers at the hatch 10
In the stillness o' the night.

1

Housen, houses. 2 Oone, one. 3 Da, do. there. Evemen, evening. Auver, over.

gates.

5

6

4 Dere, 7 Ghiates,

Clumper, gather in a lump, (an excellent word.) 9 Stratch, stretch. 10 Hatch, wicket-gate..

An' zometimes she da goo1 to zome

Young nâighbours' housen down the plaice,
An' I da2 get a clue to triace

Her out, an' goo to zee her huome;3
An' I da wish a vield1 a mile,
As she da sweetly chat an' smile,
Along the drove,5 or at the stile,
In the stillness o' the night.

WILLIAM BARNES.

A

SONG.

SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours,
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks;

For at eventide, listening earnestly,

At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks;

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower

Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

The air is damp, and hush'd, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

An hour before death:

My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,

And the breath

2

3
Da, doth. Huome, home.
5 Drove, a cow path between hedges.

1 Goo, go. field.

4 Vield,

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