An' where do pretty maïdens grow
An' blow, but where the tower
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you could zee their comely gait,
An' pretty feäces' smiles,
A-trippen on so light o' waïght,
An' steppen off the stiles;
A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing
An' ring within the tower,
You'd own the pretty maïdens' pleäce
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
An' all the farmers' housen showed
Their daughters at the door;
You'd cry to bachelors at hwome-
"Here, come: 'ithin an hour
You'll vind ten maïdens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
An' if you looked 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleäce,
A-doen housework up avore
Their smilèn mother's feäce;
You'd cry-"Why, if a man would wive
An' thrive, 'ithout a dower,
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,
There out upon the beäten grass
Wer maïdens at their play;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, "The flower
O' beauty, then, is still in bud
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
William Barnes [1801-1886]
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 dropped 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 measureTaking 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 far
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 [1806-1861]
TO A CHILD OF FANCY
THE nests are in the hedgerows,
The lambs are on the grass;
With laughter sweet as music
The hours lightfooted pass,
My darling child of fancy,
My winsome prattling lass.
Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl,
Red little lips disclosing
Twin rows of fairy pearl,
Cheeks like the apple blossom,
Voice lightsome as the merle.
A whole Spring's fickle changes,
In every short-lived day,
A passing cloud of April,
A flowery smile of May,
A thousand quick mutations
From graver moods to gay.
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,
But the violets are done.
And further still the summer,
When thy fair tree, fully grown,
Shall bourgeon, and grow splendid
With blossoms of its own,
And the fruit begins to gather,
But the buttercups are mown.
If I should see thy autumn,
'Twill not be close at hand,
But with a spirit vision,
From some far-distant land.
WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,
And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-
O the breath of the distant surf!--
The hills look over on the South,
And southward dreams the sea;
And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,
Came innocence and she.
Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs,
Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things..
She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep 'mid flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape, whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.
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