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“ Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as
they are now, Then I'll yoke thec to my cart like a poney
in the plough, My playmate thou shalt be, and when the
wind is cold Qur hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall
be thy fold.
" It will not, will not rest!-poor Creature
can it be That 'tis thy Mother's heart which is working
so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are
dear, And dreams of things which thou cans't nei
ther see nor hear.
« Alas! the mountain tops that look so green
and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that
come there; The little brooks, that seem all pastime and
When they are angry, roar like lions for their Here thou need'st not dread the Raven in
He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard
Night and day thou art safe as living thing
can be, Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth
As homeward through the lane I went with
lazy feet, This Song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, And it seem'd as I retrac'd the Ballad line by
line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of
it was mine,
Again, and once again did I repeat the Song,
Nay (said I) more than half to the Dain
sel must belong, For she look'd with such a look and she spake
with such a tone, That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.”
a bus On one of the coldest Days of the Century.
I must apprize the Reader that the Stoves in North Germany generally have the Impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this boing Part of the Brunswick Arms. tada
ik bellae sa b'OSST I bm993
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
crawl, Now back to the tiles, and now back to the
wall, And now on the brink of the iron:
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller be.
maz’d, The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the East and the West, and the South, and
the North, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg
and thigh, His eye-sight and hearing are lost, Between life and death his blood freezes and
thaws, And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost.
No Brother, no Friend has he near him,
while I Can draw warmth from the cheek of my love, As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom, As if green summer grass were the floor of my
room, And woodbines were hanging above.
Yet God is my witness, thou small helpless
Thing, Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer comes up from the South, and
with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou should'st sound
thro' the clouds, And back to the forests sgain.