XXI. WHENCE that low voice ?—A whisper from the heart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon's side; once more do we unite, From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall XXII. TRADITION. A LOVE-LORN Maid, at some far-distant time, And, gazing, saw that Rose, which from the prime Of echo doth reverberate some sweet sound : She longed to ravish ;-shall she plunge, or climb Of April, smiling high in upper air? Desperate alternative! what fiend could dare To prompt the thought ?-Upon the steep rock's breast The lonely Primrose yet renews its bloom, Untouched memento of her hapless doom! XXIII. SHEEP-WASHING. SAD thoughts, avaunt !—partake we their blithe cheer Who gathered in betimes the unshorn flock To wash the fleece, where haply bands of rock. Hear and repeat, the turmoil that unites Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear. Thickens, the pastoral River will forgive Such wrong; nor need we blame the licensed joys, Frank are the sports, the stains are fugitive. XXIV. THE RESTING-PLACE. MID-NOON is past ;-upon the sultry mead This Nook-with woodbine hung and straggling weed, Half grot, half arbour-proffers to enclose Or if the Fancy, too industrious Elf, Here wants not stealthy prospect, that may tempt XXV. METHINKS 'twere no unprecedented feat Atween his downy wings be furnished, there Rough ways my steps have trod ;-too rough and long |