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Till thirty were not left alive
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,
And I may say that many a time
I wished they all were gone:
They dwindled one by one away;
For me it was a woeful day.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind,
And every man I chanc'd so see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort could I find,
No case, within doors or without,
And crazily, and wearily,

work about:
Oft-times I thought to run away;
For me it was a woeful day.

I went my

Sir! 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store
I loved my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time;
God curs'd me in my sore distress,
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seemed to melt away.

They dwindled, Sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a weather, and a ewe;
And then at last, from three to two ;
And of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one,
And here it lies upon my arm,
Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetched it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock."


AND this place our forefathers made for man !
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us-
Most innocent, perhaps,-And what if guilty!
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!

and natural outlet shrivell’d up
Ey ignorance and parching poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to

poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome

plague spot ; Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks— And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steams and vapour of his

dungeon, By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul

Unmoulds-its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations Thou, O Nature !
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing

sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds and wa

ters, Till he relent, and can no more endure To be a jagring and a dissonant thing; Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit healed and harmonized By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

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HER eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,
Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She has a baby on her arm,
Or else she were, alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the green wood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among ;
And it was in the English tongue.

But nay, my

“« Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,

heart is far too glad ;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing :
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me,
But, safe as in a cradle, here
My lovely baby! thou shalt be:

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