She has thrown her bonnet by;
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow waters' flow-
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly useth

Fills the silence like a speech:
While she thinks what shall be done,
And the sweetest pleasure chooseth
For her future, within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile
Chooseth- I will have a lover,
Riding on a steed of steeds!
He shall love me without guile;
And to him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds.

'And the steed it 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.

'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.

Y

'He will kiss me on the mouth

Then, and lead me as a lover,

Through the crowds that praise his deeds ; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds.'

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily,—

Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe, And went homeward round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads—
Past the boughs she stoops and stops:
Lo! the wild swan had deserted,
And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him-never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

CLXII

SONG

E. B. Browning

I wander'd by the brook-side,

I wander'd by the mill,

I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree,

I watch'd the long, long shade.
And as it grew still longer

I did not feel afraid;
For I listen'd for a foot-fall,
I listen'd for a word,—

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,-no, he came not;
The night came on alone;
The little stars sat one by one
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When some one stood behind;

A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind :

It drew me nearer, nearer;
We did not speak a word,—
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

R. M. Milnes

CLXIII

TIMOTHY

'Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay:
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.'

Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons and caps white as
snow,

The girls on the hills make a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,

Fill'd the funeral basin at Timothy's door;

A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray, The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away! Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,

With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;

'The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'
But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak ;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
W. Wordsworth

CLXIV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

I-THE MAGIC SLEEP

I

Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.

2

The silk star-broider'd coverlid

Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm

With bracelets of the diamond bright:

Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love, and day with light.

3

She sleeps her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.