Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/651

 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

542 The Solitary Reader

BEHOLD her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain;

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;

1 saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;

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