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 'tis 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 can'st 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,
He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by,
Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,
Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat,

And it seem'd as I retrac'd 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,

"Nay" said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong, For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a

tone,

That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."

Written in GERMANY,

On one of the coldest days of the Century.

I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of galloping Horse upon

a

them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

A fig for your languages, German and Norse,

Let me have the song of the Kettle,

And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force

On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,

But her pulses beat slower and slower,

The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,

And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough, And now it is four degrees lower.

Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps,
A child of the field, or the grove,

And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat

Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ,

He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.

Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd,
The best of his skill he has tried;

His feelers methinks I can see him put forth

To the East and the West, and the South and the North, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh, His eyesight and hearing are lost,

Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws,

And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love,
As blest and as glad in this desolate glooin,

As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing,
Thy life I would gladly sustain

Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound through the

clouds,

And back to the forests again.