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Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we
i care?
He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him

in ; May drive at the windows,—we'll laugh at his

din : Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

By a female friend of Wordsworth.


She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair :
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time's brightest, liveliest dawn.
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too !
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty ;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death :
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command ;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel light.-



At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight

appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud-it has sung for

three years ; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has

heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

'Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her ?

She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury

glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheap


Green pastures she views in the midst of the

dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her

pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but

they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not

rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes !



The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had

When suddenly I seemed to hear

A moan, a lamentable sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound,—and more and more ; It seemed to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out ;

He stopped his horses at the word ; But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,

Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast

The horses scampered through the rain ; And soon I heard upon the blast

The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,

“What can it be, this piteous moan ?” And there a little girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

“ My cloak!” no other word she spoke,

But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would burst;

And down from off her seat she leapt.

“ What ails you, child ?”—she sobbed, “Look

here!” I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scarecrow dangled.

'Twas twisted between nave and spoke :

Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the cloak

A miserable rag indeed !

“ And whither are you going, child,

To-night along these lonesome ways ?“To Durham,” answered she, half wild

“ Then come with me into the chaise."

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