She was happy,
    Like a spirit of air she moved,
    Wayward, yet by all who knew her
    For her tender heart beloved.

      The Westmoreland Girl.

          This light-hearted Maiden.... 
    High is her aim as Heaven above,
    And wide as either her good-will;
    And, like the lowly reed, her love
    Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill;
    Insight as keen as frosty star
    Is to her charity no bar,
    Nor interrupts her frolic graces.

      The Triad.

        O Lady bright,
    Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined
    By favouring Nature, and a saintly mind,
    To something purer and more exquisite
    Than flesh and blood!

      Sonnet.

    A maid whom there wore none to praise
    And very few to love;
    A violet by a mossy stone
    Half hidden from the eye! 
    Fair as a star when only one
    Is shining in the sky.

      Poems of the Affections, 8.

    Whether in the semblance drest
    Of Dawn, or Eve, fair vision of the west,
    Come with each anxious hope subdued,
    By woman’s gentle fortitude,
    Each grief, through weakness, settling into rest.

      The Triad.

    How rich that forehead’s calm expanse! 
    How bright that heaven-directed glance!

      Poems of the Affections, 17.

    Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
    To crush the mountain dew-drops,—­soon to melt
    On the flower’s breast; as if she felt
    That flowers themselves, whate’er their hue,
    With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
    Call to the heart for inward listening.

      The Triad.

    Let other bards of angels sing,
      Bright suns without a spot;
    But thou art no such perfect thing;
      Rejoice that thou art not!

    Heed not though none should call thee fair;
      So, Mary, let it be
    If naught in loveliness compare
      With what thou art to me.

    True beauty dwells in deep retreats,
      Whose veil is unremoved
    Till heart to heart in concord beats,
      And the lover is beloved.

      Poems of the Affections, 15.

    What heavenly smiles!  O Lady mine,
    Through my very heart they shine;
    And, if my brow gives back their light,
    Do thou look gladly on the sight;
    As the clear moon with modest pride
      Beholds her own bright beams
    Reflected from the mountain’s side
      And from the headlong streams.

Poems of the Affections, 18.

How beautiful when up a lofty height
Honour ascends.
* * * * *
A Widow ... 
She wasted no complaint, but strove to make
A just repayment, both for conscience’s sake
And that herself and hers should stand upright
In the world’s eye.