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WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S CASTLE OF
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell !
Whom without blame I may not overlook ;
For never sun on living creature shone We go for One to whom ye will be dear ;
Who more devout enjoyment with us took : And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed, Here on his hours he hung as on a book, Our own contrivance, Building without peer ! On his own time here would he float away, -A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, As doth a fly upon a summer brook ; Whose pleasures are in wild fields gatherèd, But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer, Seek for him,,he is fled ; and whither none can Will come to you ; to you herself will wed;
say. And love the blessed life that we lead here.
Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed, And find elsewhere his business or delight; Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : Among the distant mountains, flower and weed, Full many a time, upon a stormy night, Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own, His voice came to us from the neighbouring height: Making all kindness registered and known; Oft could we see him driving full in view Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed, At mid-day when the sun was shining bright; Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
What ill was on him, what he had to do, Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.
And 0 most constant, yet most fickle Place,
Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show When he came back to us, a withered flower,To them who look not daily on thy face ;
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, Down would he sit; and without strength or power And say'st, when we forsake thee,“ Let them go!” | Look at the common grass from hour to hour: Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race And oftentimes, how long I fear to say, Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, And travel with the year at a soft pace.
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay;
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by, And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best ; Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was Joy will be flown in its mortality ;
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew; Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
For happier soul no living creature has Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock’s Than he had, being here the long day through. breast
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo: Glittered at evening like a starry sky ;
Some thought far worse of him, and judged him And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
wrong; Of which I sang one song that will not die.
But verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong O happy Garden ! whose seclusion deep
Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight Hath been so friendly to industrious hours ;
along. And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, With him there often walked in friendly guise, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers ; Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, Two burning months let summer overleap, A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly Into thy bosom we again shall creep.
As if a blooming face it ought to be ;