O'er rough and smooth she trips along That whistles in the wind. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old ; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, One morn we strolled on our dry walk, My thoughts on former pleasures ran; A day it was when I could bear The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade. 66 Birds warbled round me-every trace 66 Kilve," said I, was a favoured place, My Boy was by my side, so slim "Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" In careless mood he looked at me, 'Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why.". "I cannot tell, I do not know." "For, here are woods, and green hills warm: 66 There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea. At this, my Boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And five times to the child I said, Why, Edward, tell me why?" His head he raised—there was in sight, Then did the Boy his tongue unlock; O dearest, dearest Boy! my heart ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY. THE post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out; The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 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, As if her innocent heart would break; "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 scare-crow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, "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. My child, in Durham do you dwell?" "And I to Durham, Sir, belong." Again, as if the thought would choke The chaise drove on; our journey's end Up to the tavern-door we post ; "And let it be of duffil grey, As warm a cloak as man can sell!" THE PET LAMB. A PASTORAL. THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; A snow-white mountain Lamb with a Maiden at its side. |