A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;
They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.
The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.
-"Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claim'd by whoever shall find."
By their floating mill,
Which lies dead and still,
Behold yon prisoners three!
The miller with two dames, on the breast of the Thames;
The platform is small, but there's room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.
From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,
To their house and their mill tether'd fast;
To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile,
They from morning to even take whatever is given;
And many a blithe day they have pass'd.
In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires
Of the sun going down to his rest,
In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and maidens wheel,
They themselves make the reel,
And their music 's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,-what matter! 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scatter'd their cares,
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,
Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claim'd by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
The showers of the Spring
Rouse the birds, and they sing;
If the wind do but stir tor his proper delight
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss;
Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;
They are happy, for that is their right!
THE KITTEN, AND THE FALLING LEAVES,
THAT way look, my infant, lo!
What a a pretty baby-show!
See the kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Wither'd leaves-one-two-and three
From the lofty elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink,
Softly, slowly one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf convey'd
Sylph or fairy hither tending,-
To his lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In this wavering parachute.
-But the kitten how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop; and there are none-
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics play'd in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!
"Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet;
Here, for neither babe nor me,
Other playmate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings
(In the sun, or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade),
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale, so blithe a place;
Multitudes are swept away,
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travell'd into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood;
And, among the kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,
All have laid their mirth aside.
-Where is he that giddy sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree;
Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung with head towards the ground,
Flutter'd, perch'd, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest harlequin !
Prettiest tumbler ever seen
Light of heart, and light of limb,
What is now become of him?
Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,
When the year was in its prime,
They are sober'd by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy :
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter e'en than gaiety?
Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell
Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature ;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show-
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,-
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Laura's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season,
Spite of melancholy reason.
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
-Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;
I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought;
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with life's falling leaf.
BETWEEN two sister moorland rilla
'There is a spot that seems to lio
Sacred to flow'rets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you sce
A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish boy.
In clouds above the lark is heard,-
He sings his blithest and his best;
But in this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his horas;
The bees, borne on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers, to other delis,
Nor ever linger there.
The Danish boy walks here alone:
The lovely dell is all his own.
A spirit of noonday is ho,
He seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knce;
And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
-They hear the Danish boy,
While in the dell he sits alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
There sits he: in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead boy, he is serene.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON
-HAST thou then survived,
Mild offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn, one life of that bright star,
The second glory of the heavens? Thou hast-
Already hast survived that great decay;
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