"Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said, in such

a tone

That I almost received her heart into my own.

'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!

I watched them with delight, they were a lovely

pair.

Now with her empty can the Maiden turned away : But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place

I unobserved could see the workings of her face: If nature to her tongue could measured numbers

bring,

Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little Maid might sing:

"What ails thee, young One? what? 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 it 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

no peers;

grass; these flowers they have

And that green cord all day is rustling in thy ears!

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;

For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here.

"Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day

When my father found thee first in places far away; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert 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 wouldst 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 in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they

are now,

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 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 't is 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 canst 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 dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art 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!"

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced 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; 66 Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel must belong,

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

1800.

XV.

TO H. C.

SIX YEARS OLD.

O 1nou! whose fancies from afar are brought; Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;

Thou faery voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed vision! happy child!

Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sat within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;

A gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.