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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?” -Twould be a wildish destiny,

If we, who thus together roam

"Yea."

In a strange land, and far from home,
Were in this place the guests of Chance;
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance,
Though home or shelter he had none,
With such a sky to lead him on?

The dewy ground was dark and cold:
Behind, all gloomy to behold;
And stepping westward seemed to be
A kind of heavenly destiny:

I liked the greeting; 'twas a sound
Of something without place or bound :
And seemed to give me spiritual right
To travel through that region bright.

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.

Wordsworth.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold 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;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
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.

Wordsworth.

LINES WRITTEN IN MARCH.

The cock is crowing,

The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun :
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising—
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill,

On the top of the bare hill.

The plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon : There's joy in the mountains ;

There's life in the fountains ;

Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gone!

Wordsworth.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,"
Exclaimed an angry voice,

"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!"

A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

"Dost thou presume my course to block ?
Off, off! or, puny Thing!

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling."
The Flood was tyrannous and strong,
The patient Briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past;

But, seeing no relief, at last,
He ventured to reply.

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