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Deep the river was, and crusted

Thinly by a one night's frost,
But the nimble hare hath trusted

To the ice, and safely crost;
She hath crost, and without heed

All are following at full speed;

When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread, Breaks—and the greyhound, Dart, is over-head!

Better fate have Prince and Swallow

See them cleaving to the sport!
Music has no heart to follow,

Little Music she stops short.
She hath neither wish nor heart,

Hers is now another part:
A loving creature she, and brave !
And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.
From the brink her paws she stretches,

Very hands, as you would say,
And afflicting moans she fetches

As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she hath no fears-

Him alone she sees and bears,
Makes efforts and complainings, nor gives o'er
Until her fellow sank, and reappeared no more.

Wordsworth.

80.—THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. The battle it was past, and the vanquished they

were fled, And the field was left abandoned to the dying and

the dead,

When slowly struggling upwards, from beneath the

bloody throng, A wounded soldier rose, and staggered painfully

along. The night air chilly blew, and froze the blood

that dried, As it oozed out from his manly breast, and down

his stiffened side; And though with band he bound it, and his scarf

upon it lay, Yet the wound was deep, and life beneath ebbed

silently away.Yet, on he went; his cottage lay not far behind

the hill, And hope, hope fondly whispered him that he

might reach it still ; And over heath and glen he dragged his limbs,

when, lo! afar His casement's light across the moor shines

gleaming like a star. The snow-drift sweeps along, and his limbs are

stiffening fast, And his feeble voice for help is borne on wildly

with the blast. And though so near his journey's end, he feels

his strength is vain, And home, and wife, and children, he shall never

see again. One effort more, ere life’s dim spark be quenched,

and all too late; He staggers onward desperate, -he gains the

garden gate,

His gleamarite

He falls against the latch,-it breaks, but life's last

pang is o'er, And faint, the dying soldier sinks before his cottage door.

Reade.

81.-FOLDING THE FLOCKS.
Shepherds all, and maidens fair,
Fold your flocks up; for the air
'Gins[i] to thicken, and the sun
Already his great course hath run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flow'r that is ;
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a string of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus [2] down calling
The dead night from under ground,
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours, fly apace,
And hover o'er the smiling face
Of these pastures, where they come,
Striking dead both bud and bloom :
Therefore, from such danger lock
Every one his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day
Bear a lamb or kid away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox

Break upon your simple flocks.
[1] 'Ginsfor begins.
[2] Hesperus-the evening star.

To secure yourselves from these
Be not too secure in ease;
So shall you good shepherds prove,
And deserve your master's love.
Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers
And soft silence fall in numbers
On your eye-lids : so farewell;
Thus I end my evening knell

Beaumont and Fletcher

82.—UNFOLDING THE FLOCKS.

Shepherds rise, and shake off sleep-
See the blushing morn doth peep
Through your windows, while the sun
To the mountain tops has run,
Gilding all the vales below
With his rising flames, which grow
Brighter with his climbing still.
Up! ye lazy swains! and fill
Bag and bottle for the field;
Clasp your cloaks fast, lest they yield
To the bitter north-east wind.
Call the maidens up, and find
Who lies longest, that she may
Be chidden for untim'd delay.
Feed your faithful dogs, and pray
Heaven to keep you from decay,
So unfold, and then away.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

83.-DAY-BREAK...
See, the day begins to break,
And the light shoots like a streak
Of subtle fire; the wind blows cold
While the morning doth unfold;
Now the bird begins to rouse,
And the squirrel from the boughs
Leaps, to get him nuts and fruit;
The early lark, that erst [1] was mute,
Carols in the rising day
Many a note and many a lay.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

84.-EVENING MEDITATION. Permit not sluggish sleep

To close your waking eye,
Till you with judgment deep

Your daily actions try.
He that his sin as darling keeps

When he to quiet goes,
More desperate is, than he that sleeps

Amidst his mortal foes.
At night lie down, prepared to have
Thy sleep thy death, thy bed thy grave.

[l] Erstformerly, before.

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