"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:
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And rings a sharp 'larum; but, if you should
look,

There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock.
-Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in his
place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves !

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,
All last summer, as well you know,

Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

:

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle :-
But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ;
Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines
bright,

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.