6. From the workers a maiden parts: The baskets at her waistband shine With berries that look like bleeding hearts Of a hundred lovers at her shrine; No Eastern girl were girdled so well With silken belt and silver bell. Her slender form is tall and strong; Her voice is the sweetest in the song; Her brown hair, fit to wear a crown, Loose from its bonnet ripples down. Toward the crates, that lie in the shade Of the chestnut copse at the edge of the glade, She moves from her mates, through happy rows Of the children loving her as she goes. _Alice, our Alice!_ one and all, Striving to stay her footsteps, call (For children with skilful choice dispense The largesse of their innocence); But on, with a sister’s smile, she moves Into the darkness of the groves, And deftly, daintily, one by one, Shelters her baskets from the sun, Under the network, fresh and cool, Of lily-leaves from the crystal pool. 7. Turning her violet eyes, their rays Glistened full in the young man’s gaze; And each at each, for a moment’s space, Looked with a diffident surprise. “Heaven!” thought Hugh, “what artless grace That laborer’s daughter glorifies! I never saw a fairer face, I never heard a sweeter voice; And oh! were she my father’s choice, My father’s choice and mine were one In the strawberry-field and morning sun.” V. Love, from that summer morn Melting the souls of these two; Love, which some of you know Who read this poem to-day— Is it the same desire, The strong, ineffable joy, Which Jacob and Rachel felt, When he served her father long years, And the years were swift as days— So great was the love he bore? Race, advancing with time, Growing in thought and deed, Mastering land and sea, Say, does the heart advance, Are its passions more pure and strong? They, like Nature, remain, No more and no less than of yore. Whoso conquers the earth, Winning its riches and fame, Comes to the evening at last, The sunset of threescore years, Confessing that Love was real, All the rest was a dream! The sum of his gains is dross; The song in his praise is mute; The wreath of his laurels fades: But the kiss of his early love Still burns on his trembling lip, The spirit of one he loved Hallows his dreams at night. A little while, and the scenes Of the play of Life are closed; Come, let us rest an hour, And by the pleasant streams, Under the fresh, green trees, Let us walk hand in hand, And think of the days that were. VI. 1. On river and height and salty moors the haze of autumn fell, And the cloud of a troubled joy enwrapt the face of Hugh as well,— The spell of a secret haunt that far from home his footsteps drew; A love which over the brow of youth the mask of manhood threw.