They, with their pannier'd Asses semblance made The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor But ill they suited me; those journies dark The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. What could I do, unaided and unblest? My Father! gone was every friend of thine : Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, Ill was I then for toil or service fit: With tears whose course no effort could confine, By the road-side forgetful would I sit Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. I led a wandering life among the fields ; Forgone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. Three years thus wandering, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude : And now across this moor my steps I bend Oh! tell me whither -for no earthly friend Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away, As if because her tale was at an end She wept ;-because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes ; And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopp'd and play'd: The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If I these thoughts may not prevent, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? |