IX.
See, where yon towering, rocky ledge1, Hangs jutting2 o'er the river's edge, There channelled dark, and dull, and deep, The lazy, lagging waters sleep； Thence follow, with thine eagle sight, A double stone's cast to the right, Mark where a white-walled cottage stands, Devised and reared by cunning hands, A stately pile, and fair to see！ The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace, Have blent for it a goodly grace； And yet, it much less pleaseth me, Than did the simple rustic3 cot, Which occupied of yore that spot. For, 'neath its humble4 shelter, grew The fairest flower that e'er drank dew； A lone5 exotic of the wood, The fairy of the solitude6, Who dwelt amid its loneliness To brighten, beautify, and bless. The summer sky's serenest7 blue, Would best portray8 her eye's soft hue9； From her white brow were backward rolled Long curls of mingled10 light and gold； The flush upon her cheek of snow, Had shamed the rose's harsher glow； And haughty11 love had, haughtier12 grown, To own her breast his fairest throne.
The eye that once behold13 her, ne'er Could lose her image；firm and bright, All-beautiful, and pure, and clear, 'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight； Unchangeable, for ever fair, Above decay, it lingered there！ As it has lingered on mine own, These many years, till it has grown, In its mysterious strength, to be A portion of my soul and me.
