And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron

CLXXIV

SHE

HE was a phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty ;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine ;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel-light.

W. Wordsworth

CLXXV

SHE

HE is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be ;
Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.
O then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,

To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye :
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.

H. Coleridge

CLXXVI

I

FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden;

Thou needest not fear mine ; My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ;
Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

P. B. Shelley

CLXXVII

THE LOST LOVE

HE dwelt among the untrodden ways

A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye ! - Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is. in her grave, and O! The difference to me!

W. Wordsworth

CLXXVIII

I

TRAVELL'D

among

unknown men In lands beyond the sea ; Nor, England ! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream !

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time, for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire ;
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd

The bowers where Lucy play’d; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey’d.

W. Wordsworth

CLXXIX

THE EDUCATION OF NATURE

'HREE years she grew in sun and shower;

A

On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.

‘Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse : and with me
The girl, in rock and plain
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.

'She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

‘The foating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend ;
Nor shall she fail to see
E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. ‘And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake — The work was done —
How soon my Lucy's race was run !
She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And never more will be.

W. Wordsworth

CLXXX

A

SLUMBER did my spirit seal ;

I had no human fears :
She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.