No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Rolled round in earth's diurnal course,
With rocks, and stones, and trees.

CXL.

I

WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay :

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund' company:

I gazed and gazed-but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

CXLI.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

EHOLD her single in the field,

BE

Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass !

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands;

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending,
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending ;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;

There while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There, thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, oh never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it,-
Never, oh never.

CXLIII.

A

SONG.

WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,

A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,