With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, to the church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave. Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale: And then she sang;--she would have been A very nightingale. Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before. And, turning from her grave, I met, Beside the churchyard yew, A blooming girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a child so very fair, It was a pure delight! No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her, and looked again: And did not wish her mine!' Matthew is in his grave, yet now, Methinks, I see him stand, As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding{2} in his hand. NOTES. This poem was written in 1799, and published the following year. 1. =Matthew.= This old schoolmaster is described elsewhere by Wordsworth as being "made up of several, both of his class and men of other occupations." 2. =wilding.= A twig from a wild apple tree. "Ten ruddy wildings in the wood I found."--_Dryden._ THE SOLITARY REAPER. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from a cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, or may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE.