For oft, when on my couch I lie And then my heart with pleasure fills, CXLI. THE SOLITARY REAPER. B EHOLD her single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! And sings a melancholy strain ; No nightingale did ever chaunt A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 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, 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. |