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The showers of the spring

Rouse the birds, and they sing;

If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss:

Each wave, one and t' other, speeds after his brother;

They are happy, for that is their right!

THE PET LAMB.

Wordsworth.

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.

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,

And by a slender cord was tethered 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,

Seemed 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 !

I watched them with delight, they were a lovely pair.

Now with her empty can the maiden turned

away:

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

Right towards the lamb she looked: and from a shady place

I unobserved could see the workings of her

face;

If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers

bring,

Thus, thought I, to her lamb the little maid

might sing:

"What ails thee, young one? what?

so at thy cord?

Why pull

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 beautifu} 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;

For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou needst not fear,

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

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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.

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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.

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