POEMS OF CHILDHOOD AND AGE. MY Y heart leaps up when I behold So was it when my life began; The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be TO A BUTTERFLY. STAY near me-do not take thy flight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art, A solemn image to my heart, My father's family. Oh, pleasant, pleasant were the days, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey: with leaps and springs FORESIGHT. THAT is work of waste and ruin- I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. -Here are daisies, take your fill; Make your bed, and make your bower; Primroses, the spring may love them: Summer knows but little of them: Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; Daisies leave no fruit behind God has given a kindlier power And for that promise spare the flower! CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD. LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. Not less if unattended and alone Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity, Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient; solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers; The many-coloured images impressed Upon the bosom of a placid lake. LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray; No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray "To-night will be a stormy night— And take a lantern, child, to light "That, father, will I gladly do: The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon.' At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work ;-and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: The wretched parents all that night But there was neither sound nor sight At day-break on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet:" When in the snow the mother spied Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall; And then an open field they crossed: They followed from the snowy bank And further there were none! |