For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

CXLI.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

B

EHOLD her single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain ;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands;

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending,
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;

There while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, oh never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

This morn is merry June, I trow,

The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow,

Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, 'Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

CXLIV.

L

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG.

OOK not thou on beauty's charming,—

Sit thou still when kings are arming,— Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,— Speak not when the people listens,-Stop thine ear against the singer,From the red gold keep thy finger,Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, Easy live and quiet die.