-My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood :
The wolf has come to me to-night,
And he has stolen away my food.
For ever left alone am I;
Then wherefore should I fear to die ?

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60

VII.

Young as I am, my course is run,
I shall not see another sun;

I cannot lift my limbs to know
If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken Child, if I
For once could have thee close to me,
With happy heart I then would die,
And my last thought would happy be;
But thou, dear Babe, art far away,
Nor shall I see another day.

65

70

1798.

XXII.

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK.

I.

IN distant countries have I been,
And yet I have not often seen
A healthy man, a man full grown,
Weep in the public roads, alone.
But such a one, on English ground,
And in the broad highway, I met;
Along the broad highway he came,
His cheeks with tears were wet:

5

II.

He saw me, and he turned aside,
As if he wished himself to hide:
And with his coat did then essay
To wipe those briny tears away.
I followed him, and said, "My friend,
What ails you? wherefore weep you so?"
-"Shame on me, Sir! this lusty Lamb,
He makes my tears to flow.
To-day I fetched him from the rock:
He is the last of all my flock.

III,

When I was young, a single man,
And after youthful follies ran,
Though little given to care and thought,

15

20

Yet, so it was, an ewe I bought;
And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;

25

Of sheep I numbered a full score,
And every year increased my store.

30

IV.

Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,

Full fifty comely sheep I raised,

As fine a flock as ever grazed!

Upon the Quantock hills they fed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:

-This lusty Lamb of all my store

Is all that is alive;

And now I care not if we die,

And perish all of poverty.

35

40 V.

Six Children, Sir! had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!

My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the Parish asked relief.

They said, I was a wealthy man;
My sheep upon the uplands fed,
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread.

'Do this: how can we give to you,'
They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

VI.

I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;

For me it never did me good.

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50

A woeful time it was for me,

55

To see the end of all my gains,
The pretty flock which I had reared

With all my care and pains,
To see it melt like snow away--

For me it was a woeful day.

60

VII.

Another still! and still another!

A little lamb, and then its mother!

It was a vein that never stopped

Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped.

'Till thirty were not left alive

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;

And I may say that many a time

I wished they all were gone—

Reckless of what might come at last

Were but the bitter struggle past.

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70 VIII.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies crossed my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me:
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No ease, within doors or without;

75

And crazily and wearily

I went my work about;

And oft was moved to flee from home,

And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 80

IX.

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

Χ.

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90

They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; -
And then at last from three to two;

And, of my fifty, yesterday

95

I had but only one:

And here it lies upon my arm,

Alas! and I have none;

To-day I fetched it from the rock;

It is the last of all my flock."

100

XXIII.

REPENTANCE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold, Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day, Would have brought us more good than a

burthen of gold,

Could we but have been as contented as they.

5

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped in his hand;

But, Allan, be true to me, Allan, we'll die Before he shall go with an inch of the land!"

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their

bowers;

Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide;
We could do what we liked with the land, it

was ours;

And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late; And often, like one overburthened with sin, With my hand on the latch of the half-opened

gate,

I look at the fields, but I cannot go in!

15

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day,

Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,