Blackmwore Maidens An' where do pretty maïdens grow If you could zee their comely gait, You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce If you vrom Wimborne took your road, An' all the farmers' housen showed An' if you looked 'ithin their door, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour." As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in May, In Blackmwore by the Stour." 337 William Barnes [1801-1886] A PORTRAIT "One name is Elizabeth" BEN JONSON I WILL paint her as I see her. And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty Oval cheeks encolored faintly, And a forehead fair and saintly, 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 Moving light, as all young things, Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measureTaking love for her chief pleasure. Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,- A Portrait And her voice, it murmurs lowly, And her smile it seems half holy, And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware And if reader read the poem, 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 And all voices that address her, And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth, whereon she passes, And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" We may all be sure HE DOTH. 339 Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] TO A CHILD OF FANCY THE nests are in the hedgerows, My darling child of fancy, Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl, Red little lips disclosing Twin rows of fairy pearl, Cheeks like the apple blossom, A whole Spring's fickle changes, Far off, I see the season When thy childhood's course is run, And thy girlhood opens wider Beneath the growing sun, And the rose begins to redden, And further still the summer, If I should see thy autumn, WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown Six foot out of the turf, And the harebell shakes on the windy hill- The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry She listened with big-lipped surprise, |