‘Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
‘The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company: I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
‘For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon the inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.’
‘Next girl in,’ said Eric. ‘Hermie dear, don’t block the procession; consider all the pretty things said of Vanda’s artless lay. We know how fond she is of the bliss of solitude, and how ready to dance with the daffodils, or other eligible partners.’
‘Chiefly in order to put an end to your cheap sarcasm,’ retorted Hermione, ‘also to finish the affair decently, I will make an attempt to render “The Solitary Reaper.” I remember weeping bitterly over it in childhood.
‘Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
‘No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: Such thrilling voice was never heard In 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 listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.’
‘Charmin’! charmin’! absolutely, truly excellent!’ said the Honourable Falkland Aylmer, R.N. ‘Emphasis perfect, very clear and distinct intonation, but there’s one triflin’ thing I noticed—slight departure from “well of English undefiled”—probably Australian fashion; excuse me for alludin’ to it.’