NUTTING.

— It seems a day, One of those heavenly days which cannot die, When forth I sallied from our cottage-door, And with a wallet o'er my shoulder slung,

A nutting crook in hand, I turn'd my steps Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint, Trick'd out in proud disguise of Beggar's weeds Put on for the occasion, by advice

And exhortation of my frugal Dame. Motley accoutrements! of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth, More ragged than need was. Among the woods,

And o'er the pathless rocks, I forc'd my way Until, at length, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Droop'd with its wither'd leaves, ungracious sign

Of devastation, but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene!— A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart

As joy delights in; and with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet, or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I play'd;

A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been bless'd With sudden happiness beyond all hope.— — Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves

The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye, Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever, and I saw the sparkling foam,

And with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleec'd with moss, beneath the shady trees, Lay round me scatter'd like a flock of sheep, I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound,

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease, and, of its joy secure The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones,

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragg'd to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage; and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower

Deform'd and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when, from the bower I turn'd away,

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees and the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden! move along these shades

In gentleness of heart with gentle hand Touch,— for there is a Spirit in the woods. Three years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

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 hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things.

The floating clouds their state shall lend To her, for her the willow bend, Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the storm

A beauty that shall mould her 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.