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             THE COUNTRY GIRL.



            BY W. WORDSWORTH.



That happy gleam of vernal eyes,

Those locks from summer's golden skies,

   That o'er thy brow are shed;

That cheek--a kindling of the morn,

That lip--a rose-bud from the thorn,

   I saw; and Fancy sped

To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,

Of bliss that grows without a care;

Of happiness that never flies--

How can it where love never dies?

Of promise whispering, where no blight

Can reach the innocent delight;

Where Pity to the mind convey'd