"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.

Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain?

Sleep, — and at break of day I will come to thee again!

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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.

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Again, and once again did I repeat the song; 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."

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTROD-
DEN WAYS.

HE dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to
praise,

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh!

The difference to me!

TO THE DAISY.

ITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,

Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy:

Thou unassuming commonplace
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,
Which love makes for thee!

Oft do I sit by thee at ease,

And weave a web of similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humor of the game,
While I am gazing.

A nun demure, of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden of love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

A

Of all temptations;

queen in crown of rubies dressed;
A starveling in a scanty vest;
Are all, as seem to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy, -

That thought comes next, and instantly
The freak is over.

The shape will vanish, and behold!
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover.

I see thee glittering from afar ;
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are
In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest ;
May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!