She looked at it and seemed to fear it; A little Prattler among men. She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; IV. FORESIGHT. THAT is work of waste and ruin- We must spare them here are many: Small and low, though fair as any: I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. Here are daisies, take your Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower: fill ; 1801 Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or make your bower: Primroses, the Spring may love them, Withered on the ground must lie; Daisies leave no fruit behind God has given a kindlier power Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower! 1802 V. CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD. LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. Not less if unattended and alone, Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity; Even so this happy Creature of herself Is all-sufficient; solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's, Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers, 1811. VI. ADDRESS TO A CHILD, DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. WHAT BY MY SISTER. way does the Wind come? What way He rides over the water, and over the snow, does 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; He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And ring a sharp 'larum ; but, if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow, 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! with me will sec As soon as 't is daylight to-morrow, 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, 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; 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell. He Come now we 'll to bed! and when we are there may work his own will, and what shall we care? - He 1806. VII. THE MOTHER'S RETURN. BY THE SAME. A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is past Since your dear Mother went away, And she to-morrow will return ; To-morrow is the happy day. |