Classic Poem

She sits upon the mountain side,
The herd is grazing by;
At hand soft murmuring waters glide,
Around cool shadows lie.

Beside her on the grass are laid
The well adjusted straws,
With which to weave the tasteful braid,
That o'er her knee she draws.

Upon her nut-brown cheek there glows
Of health the blushing hue;
Her eyes, like dew-drops on the rose,
Are pearly, soft and blue.

All blithe and happy is her air,
Throughout the live-long day;
As to her breast corroding care
Hath never found its way.

And yet she bears, full well I know,
A tender human heart,
Where deep and warm affections glow,
And wishes fondly start.

Perhaps adown in yonder glen,
A mother's grateful smile,
As with each eve she comes again,
Awaits her all the while.

And well the thought of such delight,
May cheer the lonely child,
As pass the hours their lingering flight,
'Mid solitude and wild.

Perchance as thus alone she sits,
Intent her task to ply,
A dream of some fond lover flits,
Before her inward eye.

And fancy paints her happy lot,
In days when she shall be
The matron of a mountain cot,
With children round her knee.

Perchance she hath a lofty soul,
The gifts of genius rare,
Reads on each crag a written scroll,
Hears voices in the air.

But what she hath of hopes or fears,
It is not mine to know;
Yet will I wish, fair maid, thy years
All peacefully may flow.

That time may thy best hopes fulfil,
And all thy visions bright
Be changed to truth; — yet upward still —
Still upward — be thy flight!