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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

all play,

When they are angry, roar like lions for their Here thou need'st not dread the Raven in


the sky,

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.”

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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

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Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood

low enough,
And now it is four degrees lower.

Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
A child of the field, or the grove,
And sorrow for himn! this dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter re-

And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ,
He cannot find out in what track he must

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.

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