Thou hast thy Sabbaths, when a deeper calm Descends upon thee, quiet Mere, and then There is a sound of bells, a far off psalm From gray church towers, that swims across the fen; And the light sigh where grass and waters meet, Is thy meek welcome to the visit sweet. Thou hast thy lovers. Though the angler's rod Dimple thy surface seldom; though the oar Fill not with silvery globes thy fringing sod, Nor send long ripples to thy lonely shore; Though few, as in a glass, have cared to trace The smile of nature moving on thy face; Thou hast thy lovers truly. 'Mid the cold Of northern tarns the wild-fowl dream of thee, And, keeping thee in mind, their wings unfold, And shape their course, high soaring, till they see Down in the world, like molten silver, rest Their goal, and screaming plunge them in thy breast. Fair Margaret, who sittest all day long On the gray stone beneath the sycamore, The bowering tree with branches lithe and strong, The only one to grace the level shore, Why dost thou wait? for whom with patient cheer Gaze yet so wistfully adown the Mere? Thou canst not tell, thou dost not know, alas! Long watchings leave behind them little trace; And yet how sweetly must the mornings pass, That bring that dreamy calmness to thy face! How quickly must the evenings come that find Thee still regret to leave the Mere behind! Thy cheek is resting on thy hand; thine eyes Are like twin violets but half unclosed, And quiet as the deeps in yonder skies. Never more peacefully in love reposed A mother's gaze upon her offspring dear, Than thine upon the long far-stretching Mere. Sweet innocent! Thy yellow hair floats low In rippling undulations on thy breast, Then stealing down the parted love-locks flow, Bathed in a sunbeam on thy knees to rest, And touch those idle hands that folded lie, Having from sport and toil a like immunity. Through thy life's dream with what a touching grace Childhood attends thee, nearly woman grown; Her dimples linger yet upon thy face, Like dews upon a lily this day blown; Thy sighs are born of peace, unruffled, deep; So the babe sighs on mother's breast asleep. It sighs, and wakes,--but thou! thy dream is all, And thou wert born for it, and it for thee; Morn doth not take thy heart, nor evenfall Charm out its sorrowful fidelity, Nor noon beguile thee from the pastoral shore, And thy long watch beneath the sycamore. No, down the Mere as far as eye can see, Where its long reaches fade into the sky, Thy constant gaze, fair child, rests lovingly; But neither thou nor any can descry Aught but the grassy banks, the rustling sedge, And flocks of wild-fowl splashing at their edge. And yet 'tis not with expectation hushed That thy mute rosy mouth doth pouting close; No fluttering hope to thy young heart e'er rushed, Nor disappointment troubled its repose; All satisfied with gazing evermore Along the sunny Mere and reedy shore.