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Of thoughts, that lie beyond the reach
What hand but would a garland cull
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place.
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompence.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then, why should I be loth to stir?
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last.
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from Thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the Cabin small,
The Lake, the Bay, the Waterfall;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all!
THE SOLITARY REAPER.
Behold her, single in the field,
I Oil .1 , .1 h ,'lNo Nightingale did ever chaunt
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of Travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian Sands:
No sweeter voice was ever 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?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
WRITTEN IN MARCH,
While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water,
The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter,