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FORESIGHT,

OR THE CHARGE OF A CHILD TO HIS YOUNGER

COMPANION.

THAT is work of waste and ruin-
Do as Charles and I are doing!
Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,

We must spare them-here are many:
Look at it-the Flower is small,
Small and low, though fair as any:

Do not touch it! summers two

I am older, Anne, than you.

Pull the Primrose, Sister Anne!

Pull as many as you can.
-Here are Daisies, take
your fill;
Pansies, and the Cuckow-flower:
Of the lofty Daffodil

Make your bed, and make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the Strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them—
Summer knows but little of them:
Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie;
Daisies leave no fruit behind
When the pretty flowerets die;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

God has given a kindlier power
To the favoured Strawberry-flower.
When the mouths of Spring are fled
Hither let us bend our walk;
Lurking berries, ripe and red,
Then will hang on every stalk,

Each within its leafy bower;

And for that promise spare the flower!

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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 covered 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 't is 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 looked 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;

Untouch'd by his breath see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light;

CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS Books have we to read,—but that half-stifled knell—

OLD.

LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And innocence hath privilege in her
To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke

Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
Not less if unattended and alone

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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At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the Moor;

And thence they saw the Bridge of wood,

A furlong from their door.

They wept, and turning homeward, cried,

« In fleaven we all shall meet :»
-When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Half breathless from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they crossed:
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the Bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none!

-Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living Child;

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Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of

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Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Amble The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come

side,

here.

«Rest, 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 own'd 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 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't is 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 seem'd, 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;
«Nay,» said I, «more than half to the Damsel must belong,
For she look'd with such a look, and she spake with such

a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own. >>

THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR, DUNGEON

GHYLL-FORCE.'

A PASTORAL.

THE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never, never-ending song,
To welcome in the May.

The Magpie chatters with delight;

The mountain Raven's youngling brood
Have left the Mother and the Nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;

Or through the glittering Vapours dart
In very wantonness of heart.

Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short, and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.

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