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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;
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images impressed
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

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V.

ADDRESS TO A CHILD,

DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING.

By a female Friend of the Author.

WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow,

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;

But how he will come, and whither he goes
There's never a Scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,

And rings a sharp 'larum ; but, if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were cover'd with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-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 !

As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That ked 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,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

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;

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Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell, Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

Come now we'll to bed!
He may work his own will,
He may knock at the door,
May drive at the windows,
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

and when we are there

and what shall we care?

we'll not let him in; we'll laugh at his din;

VI.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

By the same.

A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is passed
Since your dear Mother went away,
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout,
With witless hope to bring her near;
“Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear.'

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through ; -
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his Sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

--

Her Brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his Sister's glee;
They hug the Infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,
Our rambles by the swift brook's side
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And "all since Mother went away!"

To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

But, see, the evening Star comes forth! To bed the Children must depart;

A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

and in a merry fit

"Tis gone
They run up stairs in gamesome race;
I, too, infected by their mood,

I could have joined the wanton chase.

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No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide Moor,

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The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the Town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon

The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon."

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