Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had; and going hence
I bear away my recompense. 
In spots like these it is we prize
Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
Then, why should I be loth to stir? 
I feel this place was made for her;
To give new pleasure like the past,
Continued long as life shall last. 
Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,
Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;
For I, methinks, till I grow old,
As fair before me shall behold,
As I do now, the cabin small,
The lake, the bay, the waterfall;
And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

98. The Solitary Reaper.

Behold her, single in the field,
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;
O 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.

99. Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.

The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

I.

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
    The earth, and every common sight,
              To me did seem
    Apparelled in celestial light,
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore;—­
          Turn wheresoe’er I may,
              By night or day,
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

II.

The Rainbow comes and goes,
And lovely is the Rose,
The Moon doth with delight
Look round her when the heavens are bare,
Waters on a starry night
Are beautiful and fair;
The sunshine is a glorious birth;
But yet I know, where’er I go,
That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

III.