VIII A GARDEN OF GIRLS

"One Name is Elizabeth."—Jonson. I will paint her as I see her: Ten times have the lilies blown, Since she looked upon the sun. And her face is lily-clear— Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty To the law of its own beauty. Oval cheeks encolored faintly, Which a trail of golden hair Keeps from fading off to air: And a forehead fair and saintly, Which two blue eyes undershine, Like meek prayers before a shrine. Face and figure of a child,— Though too calm, you think, and tender, For the childhood you would lend her. Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient,—waiting still On the turnings of your will. Moving light, as all young things— As young birds, or early wheat When the wind blows over it. Only free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure— Taking love for her chief pleasure: Choosing pleasures (for the rest) Which come softly—just as she, When she nestles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,— Watering flowers, or reading books. And her voice, it murmurs lowly, As a silver stream may run, Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. And her smile, it seems half holy, As if drawn from thoughts more fair Than our common jestings are. And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls Used in lovely madrigals. And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware With a halo round her hair. And if reader read the poem, He would whisper—"You have done a Consecrated little Una!" And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, "'Tis my angel, with a name!" And a stranger,—when he sees her In the street even—smileth stilly, Just as you would at a lily. And all voices that address her, Soften, sleeken every word, As if speaking to a bird. And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth whereon she passes. With the thymy scented grasses. And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" Ay, and always, in good sooth, We may all be sure he doth. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray: "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, What's your name?" quoth he— "What's your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"— "Little Bell," said she. Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks— Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks— "Bonny bird," quoth she, "Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. And the blackbird piped; you never heard Half so gay a song from any bird;— Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of that sweet face below, Dimpled o'er with smiles. And the while the bonny bird did pour His full heart out freely o'er and o'er, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear, "Little Bell!" piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern: "Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return; Bring me nuts!" quoth she. Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes; And adown the tree, Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, In the little lap drop, one by one: Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! "Happy Bell!" pipes he. Little Bell looked up and down the glade: "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, Come and share with me!" Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, Down came bonny blackbird, I declare. Little Bell gave each his honest share, Ah the merry three! And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below, All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow, From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray: Very calm and clear Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven, an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear. "What good child is this," the angel said, "That, with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly?" Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he. "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee." Thomas Westwood.

A child most infantine Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age In all but its sweet looks and mien divine. * * * * She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, A power, that from its objects scarcely drew One impulse of her being—in her lightness Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue, To nourish some far desert; she did seem Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, Like the bright shade of some immortal dream Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life's dark stream. As mine own shadow was this child to me. * * * * This playmate sweet, This child of twelve years old. Percy Bysshe Shelley From "The Revolt of Islam."

It was the charming month of May, When all the flowers were fresh and gay, One morning by the break of day, The youthful charming Chloe From peaceful slumbers she arose, Girt on her mantle and her hose, And o'er the flowery mead she goes, The youthful charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful charming Chloe. The feather'd people you might see, Perch'd all around on every tree, In notes of sweetest melody They hail the charming Chloe; Till painting gay the eastern skies, The glorious sun began to rise, Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes Of youthful, charming Chloe. Lovely was she by the dawn, Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, The youthful, charming Chloe. Robert Burns.

As I was walking up the street, A barefit maid I chanced to meet; But O the road was very hard For that fair maiden's tender feet. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. It were more meet that those fine feet Were weel laced up in silken shoon, And 'twere more fit that she should sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon. Her yellow hair, beyond compare, Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, And her two eyes, like stars in skies, Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, Mally's modest and discreet, Mally's rare, Mally's fair, Mally's every way complete. Robert Burns.

Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admirèd be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling; To her let us garlands bring. William Shakespeare. From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."

Merry Margaret As midsummer flower— Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly Her demeaning,— In everything Far, far passing That I can indite Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still, And as full of good-will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought; Far may be sought Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower— Gentle as falcon Or hawk of the tower. John Skelton.

She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush. Deeply ripened;—such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim;— Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks. "Sure," I said, "Heav'n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home." Thomas Hood.

My Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay, My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm not very auld, Yet well I like to meet her at The wauking of the fauld. * * * * My Peggy sings sae saftly, When on my pipe I play; By a' the rest it is confest, By a' the rest, that she sings best. My Peggy sings sae saftly, And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale of sense, At wauking of the fauld. Allan Ramsay. From "The Gentle Shepherd."

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true,— Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on,— That e'er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e'e; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet,— Her voice is low and sweet; And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee. William Douglas of Fingland.

Three years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower On earth was never sown: This child I to myself will take; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse: and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn That, wild with glee, across the lawn, Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute, insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mold the maiden's form By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell." Thus Nature spake—the work was done— How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And nevermore will be. William Wordsworth.

Jessie is both young and fair, Dewy eyes and sunny hair; Sunny hair and dewy eyes Are not where her beauty lies. Jessie is both kind and true, Heart of gold and will of yew; Will of yew and heart of gold— Still her charms are scarcely told. If she yet remain unsung, Pretty, constant, docile, young. What remains not here compiled? Jessie is a little child! Bret Harte.

She gamboll'd on the greens A baby-germ, to when The maiden blossoms of her teens Could number five from ten. I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain— And hear me with thine ears— That tho' I circle in the grain Five hundred rings of years, Yet, since I first could cast a shade, Did never creature pass So slightly, musically made, So light upon the grass. * * * * Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, And livelier than a lark She sent her voice thro' all the holt Before her, and the park. A light wind chased her on the wing, And in the chase grew wild, As close as might be would he cling About the darling child. But light as any wind that blows, So fleetly did she stir, The flower she touch'd on, dipt and rose, And turned to look at her. Alfred, Lord Tennyson. From "The Talking Oak."

O tell me, little children, have you seen her— The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina? O, her eyes are blue as cornflow'rs mid the corn, And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn! Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her, As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller, Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue. In her little garden many a flower is growing— Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay Is sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they. Celia Thaxter.

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 travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands; A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard, In springtime 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. William Wordsworth.

We, Hermia,... Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key; As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet a union in partition, Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart, Two of the first, like coats in heraldry Due but to one, and crownéd with one crest. William Shakespeare. From "A Midsummer Night's Dream."

In petticoat of green, Her hair about her eyne, Phyllis beneath an oak Sat milking her fair flock; 'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight, Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white. William Drummond.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutched it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? Or the nard i' the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she! Ben Jonson. From "The Triumph of Charis."

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best; There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair; I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonnie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean. Robert Burns.

Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; But to me it's delightless—my Nannie's awa'. The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn, An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, They mind me o' Nannie—an' Nannie's awa'. Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', Give over for pity—my Nannie's awa'. Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray, An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me—now Nannie's awa'. Robert Burns.