Thus I have seen her from my own fire-side Attain the utmost summit of her pride; For, from that singing hour, as time roll'd round, At the great house my Jennet might be found, And, while I watch'd her progress with delight, She had a father's blessing every night, And grew in knowledge at that moral school Till I began to guess myself a fool. Music! why she could play as well as he! At least I thought so,--but we'll let that be: She read the poets, grave and light, by turns, And talk'd of Cowper's "Task," and Robin Burns; Nay, read without a book, as I may say, As much as some could with in half a day. 'Twas thus I found they pass'd their happy time, In all their walks, when nature in her prime Spread forth her scents and hues, and whisper'd love And joy to every bird in every grove; And though their colours could not meet his eye, She pluck'd him flowers, then talk'd of poetry. Once on a sunbright morning, 'twas in June, I felt my spirits and my hopes in tune, And idly rambled forth, as if t' explore The little valley just before my door; Down by yon dark green oak I found a seat Beneath the clustering thorns, a snug retreat For poets, as I deem'd, who often prize Such holes and corners far from human eyes; I mark'd young Alfred, led by Jennet, stray Just to the spot, both chatting on their way: They came behind me, I was still unseen; He was the elder, Jennet was sixteen. My heart misgave me, lest I should be deem'd A prying listener, never much esteem'd, But this fear soon subsided, and I said, "I'll hear this blind lad and my little maid." That instant down she pluck'd a woodbine wreath, The loose leaves rattled on my head beneath; This was for Alfred, which he seized with joy, "O, thank you, Jennet," said the generous boy. Much was their talk, which many a theme supplied, As down they sat, for every blade was dried.