"Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first, in places far away: Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home; A blessed day for thee! Then whither wouldst thou roam ? A faithful nurse thou hast the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that thrice a day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk-warm milk it is and new. 66 Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough; My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold, Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold. "It will not, will not rest! Poor creature, can it be That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thec are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. "Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey. "Here thou needst not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe,-our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain ? Sleep-and at break of day I will come to thee again!" As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine. Again, and once again, did I repeat the song, "Nay," said I, more than half to the damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spoke with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own." Wordsworth. ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. What way does the Wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see: He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow Nothing but silence and empty space; As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see That he has been there, and made a great rout, And cracked the branches, and strewn them about: Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig That looked up at the sky so proud and big, Studded with apples, a beautiful show! : Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read,—but that half stifled knell, Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. |