Of the lofty daffodil Make your bed, or make your bower; Primroses, the Spring may love them, Withered on the ground must lie Daisies leave no fruit behind When the pretty flowerets die ; ; God has given a kindlier power Lurking berries, ripe and red, Then will hang on every stalk, Each within its leafy bower; And for that promise spare the flower! 1802. V. CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD. 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. Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers, He rides over the water, and over the snow, does Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, - Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place? Nothing but silence and empty space; Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, That he 's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves! you As soon as 't is daylight to-morrow, with me twig That looked up at the sky so proud and big All last summer, as well you know, Studded with apples, a beautiful show! Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, But let him range round; he does us no harm. We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath, see, the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell, Alas; 't is 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 Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. VII. THE MOTHER'S RETURN. BY THE SAME. A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is past Since your dear Mother went away, And she to-morrow will return; To-morrow is the happy day. -- 1806. O blessed tidings! thought of joy! Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; 66 Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear." I told of hills, and far-off towns, No strife disturbs his sister's breast; Of time and distance, night and day; Her joy is like an instinct, joy Her brother now takes up the note, |