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Like an army defeated
The Snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill; The Plough-boy is whooping—anon—anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
Yet are they here?—the same unbroken knot
Men, Women, Children, yea the frame
Of the whole Spectacle the same! Only their fire seems bolder, yielding light, Now deep and red, the colouring of night;
That on their Gipsy-faces falls,
Their bed of straw and blanket-walls. —Twelve hours, twelve bounteous hours, are gone while I Have been a Traveller under open sky,
Much witnessing of change and cheer,
Yet as I left I find them here!
The weary Sun betook himself to rest.
She had a tall Man's height, or more;
In all my walks, through field or town, Such Figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a Queen, To head those ancient Amazonian files: Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.
Before me begging did she stand,
I left her, and pursued my way;
The Other wore a rimless crown, With leaves of laurel stuck about: And they both followed up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout; Two Brothers seemed they, eight and ten years old; And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold.