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of the storm

       A beauty that shall mould her form

       By silent sympathy.

      The stars of midnight shall be dear

       To her, and she shall lean her ear

       In many a secret place

       Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

       And beauty born of murmuring sound

       Shall pass into her face.

      And vital feelings of delight

       Shall rear her form to stately height,

       Her virgin bosom swell,

       Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

       While she and I together live

       Here in this happy dell.

      Thus Nature spake — The work was done —

       How soon my Lucy’s race was run!

       She died and left to me

       This heath, this calm and quiet scene,

       The memory of what has been,

       And never more will be.

      The Pet-Lamb, A Pastoral.

      The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;

       I heard a voice, it said, Drink, pretty Creature, drink!

       And, looking o’er the hedge, before me I espied;

       A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side.

      No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,

       And by a slender cord was tether’d to a stone;

       With one knee on the grass did the little Maiden kneel,

       While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.

      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 receiv’d her heart into my own.

      ’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare;

       I watch’d them with delight, they were a lovely pair.

       And now with empty Can the Maiden turn’d away,

       But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

      Towards the Lamb she look’d, and from that shady place

       I unobserv’d could see the workings of her face:

       If Nature to her tongue could measur’d numbers bring

       Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.

      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 would’st 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 peer,

       And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.

      If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

       This beech is standing by, its covert thou can’st gain,

       For rain and mountain storms the like thou need’st not fear,

       The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.

      Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day

       When my Father found thee first in places far away:

       Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own’d 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 would’st 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 twice 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.

      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 thee are dear,

       And dreams of things which thou can’st 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,

       He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,

       Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,

       Be happy then and rest, what is’t that aileth thee?

      As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

       This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat,

       And it seem’d as I retrac’d 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 look’d with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

       That I almost receiv’d her heart into my own.”

WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

       Table of Contents

      I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

      A fig for your languages, German and Norse,

       Let me have the song of the Kettle,

       And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse

       That gallops away with such fury and force

       On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

      Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,

       But her pulses beat slower and slower.

       The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,

       And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough,

       And now it is four degrees lower.

      Here’s a Fly, a disconsolate

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