Lucy.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me!
The Solitary Reaper.
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again.
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
Rob Hoy's Grave.
St. 9.
Because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take who have the power,
And they should keep who can.