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Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite, or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine :
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Or triumphal chaunt,
Matched with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,—
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be;
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
WHEN maidens such as Hester die,
A month or more hath she been dead,
A springy motion in her gait,
Of pride and joy no common rate,
I know not by what name beside
She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule,
But she was trained in Nature's school,
A waking eye, a prying mind,
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
My sprightly neighbour! gone before
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
Auld Robin Gray.
When the sheep are in the fauld, when the cows come hame,
The woes of my heart fa' in showers frae my ee,
Young Jamie looed me weel, and sought me for his bride,
Before he had been gane a twelvemonth and a day,
my Jamie was at sea
My mother she fell sick-
My father cou'dna work-my mother cou'dna spin ;
My heart it said na, and I looked for Jamie back;
My father argued sair-my mother didna speak,
I hadna been his wife, a week but only four,
O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of a';
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin;
LADY ANNE BARNARD.