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REAL AND IMAGINARY,
On the wide level of a mountain's head,
(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
This far outstript the other;
Yet ever runs she with reverted face,
And looks and listens for the boy behind:
For he, alas! is blind!
O'er rough and smooth, with even step he pass'd, And knows not whether he be first or last.
A Christmas Tale, told by a School-boy to his little Brothers and Sisters.
Underneath a huge oak tree
There was, of swine, a huge company,
That grunted as they crunch'd the mast:
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.
He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait
By the side of a river both deep and great.
He went high and low,
Over hill, over dale, did the black raven go.
Many autumns, many springs
I can't tell half his adventures.
At length he came back, and with him a she,
At length be brought down the poor raven's own oak, His young ones were kill'd: for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart.
The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever-
Seventeen or eighteen years ago, an artist of some celebrity was so pleased with this doggerel, that he amused himself with the thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a round-about with four seats, and the four seasons, as children, with Time for the shew-man.
They saw'd it in planks, and its bark they did strip,
The old raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls-
Right glad was the raven, and off he went fleet,
They had taken his all, and revenge was sweet! We must not think so; but forget and forgive,
And what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let it live?
Altered and modernized from an old Poet.
I love, and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who:
For if the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too.
Yet while my joy's unknown,
Its rosy buds are but half-blown :
What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own.
I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me:
But then if I grow jealous mad,
And of them pitied be,
"Twould vex me worse than scorn!
And yet it cannot be forborn,
Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn.