POEMS OF CHILDHOOD AND AGE. MY heart leaps up when I behold So was it when my life began; So be it when I shall grow old, The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be TO A BUTTERFLY. STAY near me do not take thy flight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art, My father's family. Oh, pleasant, pleasant were the days, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey: with leaps and springs FORESIGHT. THAT is work of waste and ruin- I am older, Anne, than you. Pull the primrose, sister Anne! Pull as many as you can. -Here are daisies, take your fill; Make your bed, and make your bower; Primroses, the spring may love them: Summer knows but little of them: Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; God has given a kindlier power And for that promise spare the flower! CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes; Not less if unattended and alone Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity, Even so this happy creature of herself Is all-sufficient; solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; Unthought of, unexpected, as the stir Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers; The many-coloured images impressed Upon the bosom of a placid lake. LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray "To-night will be a stormy night- And take a lantern, child, to light "That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon." At this the father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work ;-and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night But there was neither sound nor sight At day-break on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, They wept, and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet: When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall; And then an open field they crossed: They followed from the snowy bank And further there were none! |