THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

I.

LITTLE Ellie sits alone

Mid the beeches of a meadow,

By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face.

II.

She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow. Now she holds them nakedly

In her hands all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro.

III.

Little Ellie sits alone,

And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech,

While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses

For her future within reach.

IV.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooses... "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds!

He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover

The swan's nest among the reeds.

V.

"And the steed shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be noble,

With an eye that takes the breath. And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble,

As his sword strikes men to death.

VI.

"And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

VII.

"But my lover will not prize

All the glory that he rides in,

When he gazes in my face. He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace.'

VIII.

"Then, ay then he shall kneel low, With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understandTill I answer, 'Rise and go!

For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

IX.

"Then he will arise so pale,

I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say;
Nathless maiden-brave, Farewell'

I will utter, and dissemble ;-
'Light to-morrow with to day.'

X.

SWEETER and sweeter,

Soft and low,

Neat little nymph,

Thy numbers flow,

Urging thy thimble,
Thrift's tidy symbol,

Busy and nimble,

To and fro;

Prettily plying

Thread and song,

Keeping them flying

Late and long,

Through the stitch linger,

Kissing thy finger,

Quick, as it skips along.

Many an echo,

Soft and low,

Follows thy flying

Fancy so,

Melodies thrilling,
Tenderly filling

Thee with their trilling,

Come and go;

Memory's finger,

Quick as thine,

Loving to linger

On the line,

Writes of another,

Dearer than brother:

Would that the name were mine!
J. W. PALMER.

TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF
INVERSNAID.

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head;

And these gray rocks, this household lawn,
These trees, -a veil just half withdrawn, -
This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake,
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode;
In truth together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream,
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away;

For never saw I mien or face

In which more plainly I could trace
Benignity and home-bred sense
Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scattered like a random seed,
Remote from men, thou dost not need
The embarrassed look of shy distress,
And maidenly shamefacedness:
Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear
The freedom of a mountaineer;
A face with gladness overspread,
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;
And seemliness complete, that sways
Thy courtesies, about thee plays;
With no restraint, but such as springs
From quick and eager visitings
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach
Of thy few words of English speech,
A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife
That gives thy gestures grace and life!
So have I, not unmoved in mind,
Seen birds of tempest-loving kind,
Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull
For thee who art so beautiful?
O happy pleasure! here to dwell
Beside thee in some heathy dell;
Adopt your homely ways and dress,
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!
But I could frame a wish for thee
More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea; and I would have
Some claim upon thee, if I could,
Though but of common neighborhood.
What joy to hear thee, and to see !
Thy elder brother I would be,
Thy father, anything to thee.

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 recompense.
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:
Then why should I be loath 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 loath, 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!

A PORTRAIT.

W. WORDSWORTH.

"One name is Elizabeth."-BEN JONSON.

I WILL paint her as I see her.

Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear,

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air;

And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,

Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,

Frank, obedient, waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all your things,

As young birds, or early wheat,
When the wind blows over it.

Quiet talk she liketh best,

In a bower of gentle looks, Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more far Than our common jestings are.

And if any poet knew her,

He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.

And if any painter drew her,

He would paint her unaware
With a halo round the hair.

And if reader read the poem,

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