She lived unknown, and few could know
    When Lucy ceased to be;
  But she is in her grave, and, oh,
    The difference to me!

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 chant
    More welcome notes to weary bands
  Of travelers 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.

SKATING AT NIGHT.

[From the Prelude.]

  So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
  And not a voice was idle; with the din
  Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
  The leafless trees and every icy crag
  Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills
  Into the tumult sent an alien sound
  Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
  Eastward were sparking clear, and in the west
  The orange sky of evening died away. 
  Not seldom from the uproar I retired
  Into a silent bay, or sportively
  Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
  To cut across the reflex of a star
  That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
  Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
  When we had given our bodies to the wind,
  And all the shadowy banks on either side
  Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
  The rapid line of motion, then at once
  Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
  Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
  Wheeled by me—­even as if the earth had rolled
  With visible motion her diurnal round! 
  Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
  Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
  Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS.