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“ Our work,” said I, “was well begun :
Then, from thy breast what thought Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought ?”
A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
To me he made reply:
“ Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind,
Full thirty years behind.
“And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the very brother.
" With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.
“Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale ; And then she sang ;-she would have been
A very nightingale.
“ Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
I e'er had loved before.
“And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,
With points of morning dew.
“A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white; To see a child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!
“No fountain from its rocky cave
E’er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.
“ There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine ;
And did not wish her mine!”.
Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
Wordsworth. STEPPING WESTWARD.
[While my fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Ketterine one fine evening after sunset, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, “What, you are stepping westward ?”]
“ WHAT, you are stepping westward ?" " Yea.”
The dewy ground was dark and cold:
221 The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake : The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy : Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way.
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
Stop here, or gently pass !
No nightingale did ever chant
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard,
Will no one tell me what she sings ?
And battles long ago :
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
And o'er the sickle bending ;-