LOUISA. I MET Louisa in the shade; And, having seen that lovely Maid, Why should I fear to say That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong; And down the rocks can leap along, And she hath smiles to earth unknown; Smiles, that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise; That come and go with endless play, And ever, as they pass away, Are hidden in her eyes. She loves her fire, her Cottage-home; Yet o'er the moorland will she roam And, when against the wind she strains, Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, XI. "Tis said, that some have died for love: And here and there a church-yard 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 He dwells alone Upon Helvellyn's side: He loved have known; 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; "Oh, move, 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, When will that dying murmur be supprest? Your sound my heart of peace bereaves, It robs my heart of rest. 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, Oh let it then be dumb! Be any thing, sweet Rill, but that which thou art now. "Thou Eglantine, whose arch so proudly towers, (Even like a rainbow spanning half the vale) Thou one fair shrub, oh! 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, Disturbs me, till the sight is more than I can bear." The Man who makes this feverish complaint Ah gentle Love! if ever thought was thine |