The Home Book of Verse
Chapter 72 : 'Tis Dorothee, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blus.h.i.+ng morn, Of n.o.ble S

'Tis Dorothee, a maid high-born, And lovely as the blus.h.i.+ng morn, Of n.o.ble Sidney's race; Oh! could you see into her mind, The beauties there locked-up outs.h.i.+ne The beauties of her face.

Fair Dorothea, sent from heaven To add more wonders to the seven, And glad each eye and ear, Crown of her s.e.x, the Muse's port, The glory of our English court, The brightness of our sphere.

To welcome her the Spring breathes forth Elysian sweets, March strews the earth With violets and posies, The sun renews his darting fires, April puts on her best attires, And May her crown of roses.

Go, happy maid, increase the store Of graces born with you, and more Add to their number still; So neither all-consuming age, Nor envy's blast, nor fortune's rage Shall ever work you ill.

Edmund Waller [1606-1687]

"O, SAW YE BONNY LESLEY"

O saw ye bonny Lesley As she gaed owre the Border?

She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he couldna scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonny face, And say, "I canna wrang thee!"

The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie!

That we may brag we hae a la.s.s There's nane again sae bonny.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

TO A YOUNG LADY

Sweet stream, that winds through yonder glade, Apt emblem of a virtuous maid!-- Silent and chaste she steals along, Far from the world's gay busy throng: With gentle yet prevailing force, Intent upon her destined course; Graceful and useful all she does, Blessing and blest where'er she goes; Pure-bosomed as that watery gla.s.s, And Heaven reflected in her face!

William Cowper [1731-1800]

RUTH

She stood breast high among the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened;--such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell.

But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising G.o.d with sweetest looks:

Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.

Thomas Hood [1799-1845]

THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland La.s.s!

Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pa.s.s!

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 chaunt 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.

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

THE THREE COTTAGE GIRLS

I How blest the Maid whose heart--yet free From Love's uneasy sovereignty-- Beats with a fancy running high, Her simple cares to magnify; Whom Labor, never urged to toil, Hath cherished on a healthful soil; Who knows not pomp, who heeds not pelf; Whose heaviest sin it is to look Askance upon her pretty Self Reflected in some crystal brook; Whom grief hath spared--who sheds no tear But in sweet pity; and can hear Another's praise from envy clear.

II Such (but O lavish Nature! why That dark unfathomable eye, Where lurks a Spirit that replies To stillest mood of softest skies, Yet hints at peace to be o'erthrown, Another's first, and then her own?) Such haply, yon Italian Maid, Our Lady's laggard Votaress, Halting beneath the chestnut shade To accomplish there her loveliness: Nice aid maternal fingers lend; A Sister serves with slacker hand; Then, glittering like a star, she joins the festal band.

III How blest (if truth may entertain Coy fancy with a bolder strain) The Helvetian Girl--who daily braves, In her light skiff, the tossing waves, And quits the bosom of the deep Only to climb the rugged steep!

--Say whence that modulated shout!

From Wood-nymph of Diana's throng?

Or does the greeting to a rout Of giddy Baccha.n.a.ls belong?

Jubilant outcry! rock and glade Resounded--but the voice obeyed The breath of an Helvetian Maid.

IV Her beauty dazzles the thick wood; Her courage animates the flood; Her steps the elastic greensward meets Returning unreluctant sweets; The mountains (as ye heard) rejoice Aloud, saluted by her voice!

Blithe Paragon of Alpine grace, Be as thou art--for through thy veins The blood of Heroes runs its race!

And n.o.bly wilt thou brook the chains That, for the virtuous, Life prepares; The fetter which the Matron wears; The patriot Mother's weight of anxious cares!

"Sweet Highland Girl! a very shower Of beauty was thy earthly dower,"

When thou didst flit before mine eyes, Gay Vision under sullen skies, While Hope and Love around thee played, Near the rough falls of Inversneyd!

Have they, who nursed the blossom, seen No breach of promise in the fruit?

Was joy, in following joy, as keen As grief can be in grief's pursuit?