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And the murdered babes bewail ; [1]

Yet, so greedy of thy pain, That when all my lore would fail

I must needs begin again! I miss thee from my side,

In the haunts that late were thine ; Where thy twinkling feet would glide,

And thy clasping fingers twine;
Here are chequered tumblers nine-

Silent relics of thy play-
Here the mimic tea-things shine,

Thou would'st wash the live-long day! Thy drum hangs on the wall;

Thy bird-organ sounds are o'er, Dogs and horses, great and small

Wanting some a leg or more ; Cows and sheep-a motley store

All are stabled 'neath thy bed ; And not one but can restore

Memories sweet of him that's fled. I miss thee from my side,

Blithe cricket of my hearth! Oft in secret have I sighed

For thy chirping voice of mirth ;
When the low-bred cares of earth

Chill my heart, or dim my eye,
Grief is stifled in its birth
If my little prattler's nigh!

A. A. Watts.

[1] See No. 48, “ The Children in the Wood.”

59.-THE PET LAMB. 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 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. '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 turned away; But, ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did

she stay. What ails thee, young one?” said she, “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 wouldst 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 peers; And that green corn, all day, is rustling in thy ears. If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy

woollen chain, The beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; For rain and mountainstorms! the like thou

need'st not fearThe rain and storm are things which scarcely can

come here. Rest, little young one, rest! hast thou forgot the

day When my father found thee first in places far away? Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wast

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 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, too, in the day, when the ground is

wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and It will not, will not rest!-poor creature, can it be, That 'tis thy mother's heart that is working so in

new.

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 need'st not fear the raven in the sky; Night and day thou'rt 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.”

Wordsworth.

60.—THE FROST.
The Frost looked forth, one still clear night,
And whispered, “ Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,

In silence, I'll take my way;
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its

crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads and over the breast

Of the quivering lakes he spread
A coat of mail, that need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,

Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepp'd,

By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things ;—there were flowers and

trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; There were cities with temples and towers, and these

All pictured in silver sheen ! [1]
But he did one thing that was hardly fair ;
He peep'd in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare

“Now just to set them a thinking I'll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, “ This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the glass of water they've left for me Shall .tchick !' to tell them I'm drinking.”

Miss Gould. [1] Sheen-Brightness, splendour.

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