Page:The Prelude, Wordsworth, 1850.djvu/230

208 Blown from their favourite resting-place, or mists

Dissolved, have left him an unshrouded head.

Delightful day it is for all who dwell

In this secluded glen, and eagerly

They give it welcome. Long ere heat of noon,

From byre or field the kine were brought; the sheep

Are penned in cotes; the chaffering is begun.

The heifer lows, uneasy at the voice

Of a new master; bleat the flocks aloud.

Booths are there none; a stall or two is here;

A lame man or a blind, the one to beg,

The other to make music; hither, too,

From far, with basket, slung upon her arm,

Of hawker's wares—books, pictures, combs, and pins—

Some aged woman finds her way again,

Year after year, a punctual visitant!

There also stands a speech-maker by rote,

Pulling the strings of his boxed raree-show;

And in the lapse of many years may come

Prouder itinerant, mountebank, or he

Whose wonders in a covered wain lie hid.

But one there is, the loveliest of them all,

Some sweet lass of the valley, looking out

For gains, and who that sees her would not buy?

Fruits of her father's orchard, are her wares,