"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in

this Can

Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran :

And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough ; My Playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold. Our 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 canst neither 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 prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain ?
Sleep-and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

-As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;

And it seemed, as I retraced 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;

66

Nay," said I, more than half to the Damsel must

belong,

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such

a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

Written in GERMANY,

On one of the coldest days of the Century.

I must apprise the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.

A fig for your languages, German and Norse!

Let me have the song of the Kettle;

And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse That gallops away with such fury and force

On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

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 him! this dull treacherous heat

Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
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 bemazed; 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 eyesight 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 shouldst sound through

the clouds,

And back to the forests again.