Normale Version: The Rustic (2)
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The Rustic


Of tattered robe all recklessly the while
She climbed the rugged hill with eager feet,
Cought the first waking of the morning smile,
And felt her heart with joyous wonder beat,

As slowly past the mountain vapor swept,
Lifting itself in fleecy folds away
From lake, and stream, and grove, and vale, that slept
Within its down, like weary child from play.

A lisping girl she was, yet fair withal,
Who whith the buttercup and wild brook played,
Till labor claimed her for his daily thrall;

And she, in kirtle short and gown arrayed,
Left far behind her home in that sweet dell,
Blest with the hum of bees and song of whip-poorwill.


Poor was the girl, yet still to grief unknown,
Save when a jagged stone she careless pressed,
Or trod on humble-bee, withouten shoon,
Or thorn projecting pierced her sun-burnt breast

Or tore the ringlets from her brow away,
Which after lined the active robin’s nest,
Who sang for her a more melodious lay.
What though thouse tangled locks might half disguise

The speaking lustre of her soul-full eyes!
What though were darkly stained her childish brow;
No inward pang its form of grace had riven;

And though its hue be fairer, softer, now,
Oh, doth it turn as innocent to Heaven!
Doth it now bend in prayer as sure to be forgiven!