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Brown hands splashed with mulberry Content with vaguest feathers and

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hairs

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But if I could turn from the long de- Ah me! should I paint the morrows

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Then, while the grasshopper sung out All our atoms are changed, they

shrill

In the grass beneath the blanching

say;

And the taste is so different since

thistle,

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then:

live, but a world has passed

away,

With the years that perished to make us men.

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On a crag I sat me down.
Upon the mountain hoary,
And made her read again to me
That old pathetic story.

Then she sang me mountain songs,
Till the air was ringing
With her clear and warbling voice,
Like a skylark singing.

And when eve came on at length,
Among the blooming heather,
We herded on the mountain-side
Her father's flock together.

And near unto her father's house

I said "Good night!" with sorrow, And inly wished that I might say, "We'll meet again to-morrow.

I watched her tripping to her home; I saw her meet her mother; Among a thousand maids," I cried, "There is not such another!"

66

I wandered to my scholar's home,
It lonesome looked and dreary;
I took my books, but could not read,
Methought that I was weary.

I laid me down upon my bed,

My heart with sadness laden;

I dreamed but of the mountain world, And of the mountain maiden.

I saw her of the ancient book
The pages turning slowly;
I saw her lovely crimson cheek

And dark eyes drooping lowly.

The dream was like the day's delight,
A life of pain's o'erpayment:
I rose, and with unwonted care,
Put on my Sabbath raiment.

To none I told my secret thoughts,
Not even to my mother,
Nor to the friend who, from my youth
Was dear as is a brother.

I got me to the hills again;
The little flock was feeding:

And there young Tibbie Inglis sat,
But not the old book reading.

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Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. I have tottered here to look once

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"Here's a fool!"

more!

"All the picture now to me how dear!

E'en this gray old rock where I am
seated

Is a jewel worth my journey here;
Ah, that such a scene must be
completed
With a tear!

It was summer, and we went to All the picture now to me how dear!

school.

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Would not stay,

"Old stone school-house! - it is still the same!

There's the very step I so oft mounted;

There's the window creaking in its

frame,

And the notches that I cut and
counted
For the game;

When the stranger seemed to mark Old stone school-house! - it is still

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One sweet spirit broke the silent In the cottage yonder, I was born.

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