Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Line Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profoundIs overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne’er was heardIn spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;
—I listen’d, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
