Books have we to read,-hush! that half-stifled knell, Methinks 'tis 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.

VI.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

BY THE SAME.

A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is passed

Since dear Mother went away,

your

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 shew,
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:

'Tis gone-and in a merry fit
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I too, infected by their mood,

I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past-and Oh the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.

VII.

LUCY GRAY,

Or Solitude.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the Wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide Moor,

-The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

To-night will be a stormy nightYou to the Town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your mother through the snow."