"Father, I'm going home! To the good home you speak of, that blest land, "I must be happy then, From pain and death, you say, I shall be free, 66 Brother, the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours "Plant there some box or pine, Something that lives in Winter, and will be A verdant offering to my memory, And call it mine! "Sister,-my young rose-tree, That all the Spring has been my pleasant care, "And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away, my short life done; Upon my tomb? “Now, mother, sing the tune You sung last night. I'm weary and must sleep; Morning spread over earth her rosy wings; Lay on his couch asleep. The gentle air THE MOUNTAIN LAMB. THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side. Nor sheep, nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone, 'Twas little Barbara Sewthwaite, a child of beauty rare ! “What ails thee, young one? What? thy cord? Why pull so at Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Hist, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee? "What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs, are they not strong? and beautiful thou art : This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; And that green corn all day is rustling in thine ears! "If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; For rain and mountain storms-the like thou need'st not fear, The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here. “Hist, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day When my father found thee first in places far away ; Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none, And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone. ? "He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home; A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been. "Thou know'st that thrice a-day I have brought thee in this can Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran; And twice too in the day, when the ground is wet with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk,—warm milk it is and new. "It will not, will not rest! Poor creature, can it be "Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! "Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Wordsworth. THE FAKENHAM GHOST. THE lawns were dry in Euston Park— Benighted was an ancient dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham, And hail its willow shade. Her footsteps knew no idle stops, And echo'd to the darksome copse That whispered on the hill ; Where clam'rous rooks, yet scarcely hush'd, Bespoke a peopled shade; And many a wing the foliage brush'd, And hovering circuits made. The dappled herd of grazing deer Darker it grew; and darker fears Came o'er her troubled mind; When now, a short quick step she hears She turn'd; it stopp'd! nought could she see Upon the gloomy plain! But, as she strove the sprite to flee, She heard the same again. P Now terror seized her quaking frame ; Yet once again, amidst her fright, Regardless of whate'er she felt, It followed down the plain! She own'd her sins, and down she knelt, Then on she sped; and hope grew strong, Loud fell the gate against the post! Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, Her strength and resolution spent, Out came her husband, much surprised; Of what they had to fear. The candle's gleam pierced through the night, Distinctly might be seen. |