Abstract
Ah what a crash was that! with gentle hand Touch those fair hazels—My beloved Friend Maid Though ’tis a sight invisible to thee From such rude intercourse the woods all shrink As at the blowing of Astolpho’s horn.— Thou, Lucy, art a maiden ‘inland bred’ And thou hast known ‘some nurture’; but in truth If I had met thee here with that keen look Half cruel in its eagerness, those cheeks Thus flushed with a tempestuous bloom, I might have almost deem’d that I had pass’d A houseless being in a human shape, An enemy of nature, hither sent From regions far beyond the Indian hills. Come rest on this light bed of purple heath And let me see thee sink into a dream Of gentle thoughts, protracted till thine eye Be calm as water when the winds are gone And no one can tell whither. . . 2
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