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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 poney

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 thee are

dear, And dreams of things which thou cans't nei

ther see nor hear.

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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 " Here thou need'st not dread the Raven in

prey.

the sky,

He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard

by; Night and day thou art safe as living thing

can be, Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth

thee?"

As homeward through the lane I went with

lazy feet, This Song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, And it seem'd as I retrac'd 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 Dain

sel must belong, For she look'd with such a look and she spake

with such a tone, That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.”

!

Written in

GERMANY, On one of the coldest Days of the Century.

I must apprize tbe Reader that the Stoves in North Germany generally have the imprese sion of a galloping Horse upon them, this being Part of the Brunswick Arms.

A Fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the Song of the Kettle,
And the Tongs and the Poker, instead of that

Horse
That gaHops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood

low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.

Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
A child of the field, or the grove,
And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter re-

treat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ,
He cannot find out in what track he must

crawl, Now back to the tiles, and now back to the

wall, And now on the brink of the iron:

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller be.

maz’d, The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the East and the West, and the South, and

the North, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg

and thigh, His eye-sight and hearing are lost, Between life and death his blood freezes and

thaws, And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost,

No Brother, no Friend has he near him,

while I Can draw warmth from the cheek of my love, As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, As if green sụmmer grass were the floor of

my room, And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet God is my witness, thou small helpless

Thing, my wi

Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer comes up from the South, and

with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound

thro' the clouds, And back to the forests sgain.

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