I LOVED the old man, for I pitied him.

A task it was, I own, to hold discourse
With one so slow in gathering up his thoughts,
But he was a cheap pleasure to my eyes;

Mild, inoffensive, ready in his way,

And useful to his utmost power: and there

Our Housewife knew full well what she possessed

He was her vassal of all labour, tilled

Her garden, from the pasture fetched her kine

And, one among the orderly array

Of haymakers, beneath the burning sun
Maintained his place; or heedfully pursued
His course, on errands bound to other vales,
Leading sometimes an inexperienced child,
Too young for any profitable task.

So moved he like a shadow that performed
Substantial service.

WORDSWORTH.

227

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain.
Oh, listen for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No 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?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago;

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending,

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending ;

I listened till I had my fill;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

WORDSWORTH,

ROVER, awake! the grey cock crows!
Come, shake your coat and go with me!
High in the east the green hill glows,
And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
The sheep expect us at the fold:
My faithful dog, let's haste away,
And in his earliest beams behold,
And hail, the source of cheerful day.
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill,
And darting down the valley flies,
At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies.
Go, fetch my staff; and o'er the dews

Let echo waft thy gladsome voice.

Shall we a cheerful note refuse

When rising morn proclaims "Rejoice"?

BLOOMFIELD.