You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 'To-night will be a stormy night 'That, father, will I gladly do! The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook And snapp'd a fagot band; He plied his work; and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wander'd up and down: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night, Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. Oh! too industrious folly! Oh! vain and causeless melancholy ! Nature will either end thee quite ; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks; Or to be trail'd along the soiling earth; A gem that glitters while it lives ; And no forewarning gives; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife LINES, Composed at Grasmere, during a walk, one evening after a stormy day, the author having just read in a newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected. LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up, With which she speaks when storms are gone, Of all her voices, one! Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, No nightingale did ever chant No sweeter voice was ever heard Will no one tell me what she sings? Or is it some more humble lay, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang THE PET LAMB. A Pastoral. THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seem'd to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. 'Drink, pretty creature, drink,' she said in such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own. 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! Towards the lamb she look'd; and from that shady place 'What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee? 'What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art: This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; And that green corn, all day, is rustling in thy ears! 'If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; Now there is stillness in the vale, If for a lover the lady wept, From death, and from the passion of death She weeps not for the wedding-day He was a tree that stood alone, Long, long in darkness did she sit, The stately priory was rear'd, And the lady pray'd in heaviness That look'd not for relief: And slowly did her succour come, And a patience to her grief. Oh! there is never a sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn and ask Of Him to be our friend! h; |