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She dwelt

among th' untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

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A Violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the Eye!

Fair, as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky!

She liv'd unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceas'd to be;

But she is in her Grave, and Oh !

The difference to me.

A slumber did my spirit seal,

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force

She neither hears nor sees

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course

With rocks and stones and trees!


"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,

Exclaim'd a thundering Voice,

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

A falling Water swoln with snows
Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,
That all bespatter'd 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 suffer'd long,

Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

Hoping the danger would be pass'd :

But seeing no relief, at last

He ventur❜d to reply.

"Ah!" said the Briar, "Blame me not!

Why should we dwell in strife?

We who in this, our natal spot,

Once liv'd a happy life!

You stirr'd me on my rocky bed

What pleasure thro' my veins you spread!

The Summer long from day to day

My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd;

Nor was it common gratitude

That did your cares repay.

When Spring came on with bud and bell,

Among these rocks did I

Before you hang my wreath to tell

That gentle days were nigh!

And in the sultry summer hours

I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers;
And in my leaves now shed and gone
The linnet lodg'd and for us two
Chaunted his pretty songs when you

Had little voice or none.

But now proud thoughts are in your breast

What grief is mine you see.

Ah! would you think, ev'n yet how blest

Together we might be!

Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

Some ornaments to me are left—

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,

With which I in my humble way
Would deck you many a Winter's day,
A happy Eglantine!"

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