Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

- 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.

- Come now we 'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

He may knock at the door,—we'll not let him in; May drive at the windows, we'll laugh at his din; Let him seek his own home wherever it be ;

Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

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.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,-
And shouted, " Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near ;
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through ;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,

But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery

Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;

She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done, -
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And all "since Mother went away"!

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,

The lambs that in the meadow go.

But, see, the evening star comes forth!

To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,

A sadness at the heart :

They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I, too, infected by their mood,

I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past,

and O the change!

Asleep upon their beds they lie ;

Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.

1807

VIII.

ALICE FELL;

OR, POVERTY.

THE post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned
When, as we hurried on, my ear
Was smitten with a startling sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound,

and more and more;

It seemed to follow with the chaise,

And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;
He stopped his horses at the word,
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it, could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
But, hearing soon upon the blast
The cry, I bade him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

My cloak!" no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her innocent heart would break;
And down from off her seat she leapt.

"What ails you, child?" She sobbed, "Look here! I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scarecrow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

"And whither are you going, child,
To-night, along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham," answered she, half wild.
"Then come with me into the chaise."

Insensible to all relief

Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief

Could never, never have an end.