esigned,
And gave to fancy all her youthful mind.
Shall I describe her! Didst thou never mark
A soft blue light, beneath eye-lashes dark?
Such was her eye's soft light;--her chestnut hair,
Light as she tripped, waved lighter to the air;
And, with her prayer-book, when on Sunday dressed,
Her looks a sweet but lowly grace expressed,
As modest as the violet at her breast.
Sometimes all day by her lone mother's side 70
She sat, and oft would turn, a tear to hide.
Where winds the brook, by yonder bordering wood, 72
Her mother's solitary cottage stood:
A few white pales in front, fenced from the road
The garden-plot, and poor but neat abode.
Before the window, 'mid the flowers of spring
A bee-hive hummed, whose bees were murmuring;
Beneath an ivied bank, abrupt and high,
A small clear well reflected bank and sky,
In whose translucent mirror, smooth and still, 80
From time to time, a small bird dipped its bill.
Here the first bluebell, and, of livelier hue,
The daffodil and polyanthus grew.
'Twas Mary's care a jessamine to train.
With small white blossoms, round the window-pane:
A rustic wicket opened to the meads,
Where a scant pathway to the hamlet leads:
And near, a water-wheel toiled round and round,
Dashing the o'ershot stream, with long continuous sound.
Beyond, when the brief shower had sailed away, 90
The tapering spire shone out in sunlight gray;
And o'er that mountain's northern point, to sight
Stretching far on, the main-sea rolled in light.
Enter: within, see everything how neat!
One book lies open on the window-seat,
The spectacles are on a leaf of Job:
There, mark, a map of the terrestrial globe;
And opposite, with its prolific stem,
The Christian's tree, and New Jerusalem;[50]
Here, see a printed paper, to record 100
A veritable letter from our Lord:[51]
Two books are on the window-ledge beneath,--
The Book of Prayer, and Drelincourt on Death:
Some cowslips, in a cup of china placed, 104
A painted shelf above the chimney graced:
Grown like its mistress old, with half-shut eyes,
Save when, at times, awaked by wandering flies,
Tib[52] in the sunshine of the casement lies.
'Twas spring time now, with birds the garden rung,
A