Volume I:

       Table of Contents

      To Her, whose bounty oft hath shed

       Joy round the peasant’s lowly bed,

       When trouble press’d and friends were few,

       And God and Angels only knew—

       To Her, who loves the board to cheer,

       And hearth of simple Cottager;

       Who loves the tale of rural kind,

       And wayward visions of his mind,

       I dedicate, with high delight,

       The themes of many a winter night.

      What other name on Yarrow’s vale

       Can Shepherd choose to grace his tale?

       There other living name is none

       Heard with one feeling,—one alone.

       Some heavenly charm must name endear

       That all men love, and all revere!

       Even the rude boy of rustic form,

       And robes all fluttering to the storm,

       Whose roguish lip and graceless eye

       Inclines to mock the passer by,

       Walks by the Maid with softer tread,

       And lowly bends his burly head,

       Following with eye of milder ray

       The gentle form that glides away.

       The little school–nymph, drawing near,

       Says, with a sly and courteous leer,

       As plain as eye and manner can,

       “Thou lov’st me—bless thee, Lady Anne!”

       Even babes catch the beloved theme,

       And learn to lisp their Lady’s name.

      The orphan’s blessing rests on thee;

       Happy thou art, and long shalt be!

       ’Tis not in sorrow, nor distress,

       Nor Fortune’s power, to make thee less.

       The heart, unaltered in its mood,

       That joys alone in doing good,

       And follows in the heavenly road,

       And steps where once an Angel trode,—

       The joys within such heart that burn,

       No loss can quench, nor time o’erturn!

       The stars may from their orbits bend,

       The mountains rock, the heavens rend,—

       The sun’s last ember cool and quiver,

       But these shall glow, and glow for ever!

      Then thou, who lov’st the shepherd’s home,

       And cherishest his lowly dome,

       O list the mystic lore sublime,

       Of fairy tales of ancient time.

       I learned them in the lonely glen,

       The last abodes of living men;

       Where never stranger came our way

       By summer night, or winter day;

       Where neighbouring hind or cot was none,

       Our converse was with Heaven alone,

       With voices through the cloud that sung,

       And brooding storms that round us hung.

      O Lady, judge, if judge you may,

       How stern and ample was the sway

       Of themes like these, when darkness fell,

       And gray–hair’d sires the tales would tell!

       When doors were barr’d, and eldron dame

       Plied at her task beside the flame,

       That through the smoke and gloom alone

       On dim and umber’d faces shone—

       The bleat of mountain goat on high,

       That from the cliff came quavering by;

       The echoing rock, the rushing flood,

       The cataract’s swell, the moaning wood,

       That undefined and mingled hum—

       Voice of the desart, never dumb!—

       All these have left within