74

JULIA AND HENRY.

And Norman is shearing the dear little sheep; And see, Julia, see, how dark Lenington's steep Is wash'd by the waves in the bay!

"We'll stop at Tom Norman's, and get some new milk,

"Tis always so nice and so good:

I'd twice rather have it than milk from the cow; They get it, you know, from some goats on the brow

Of the hill by Jack Henderson's Wood.

"Come, come."-" Stop," said Julia, "we'll go and ask leave."

"O dear, no occasion at all.

Quick! quick! what a slow, lazy being you are! It is late; and just look at the pale evening star; And the dew is beginning to fall."

Well, Julia went on, as we're easily led

To do whatsoever is wrong;

And straight to Jack Henderson's cottage they stray'd,

The gay little lad and the gay little maid,
With a skip, and a trip, and a song.

But just as they got to the edge of the stream
Which runs by Jack Henderson's door,

The sky got quite dark, and the wind got so loud,
And flashes of lightning were seen from each cloud,
And the rain 'gan in torrents to pour.

"You're mad!" call'd out Henry: "don't go near

that tree;

Be assur'd it is wrong, very wrong.

Mamma says we never should go near a tree; "Tis the maddest and very worst thing that can be,

Whenever the lightning comes on.

"But always-O dear! see that flash, Julia, see! Whenever the fork'd lightning glares,

We always-hark! hark! did you hear that loud din?

We always-another! I wish we were in!
We always should go to our prayers."

And now did the sky become awfully dark;
The tempest swept over the heath;

The thunder roll'd loudly in peals through the air; When lo! one dread flash of the lightning's bright glare

Depriv'd little Henry of breath!

In horror poor Julia now started and shriek'd;
Then fled like a doe through the dell ;

And, bounding distractedly over the moor,
Pale, breathless, and panting, arriv'd at the door,
Her sorrowful story to tell.

The father, the mother, the grandfather old,
And servants, all fled o'er the plain:

But Death's icy fingers already were press'd
On Henry's poor heart, and his poor little breast
Was so cold that their efforts were vain.

THE OAK.

THE wide-spreading oak in the lawn of St. Clair
Is dear to my heart, and will always be dear;
Because I so often have sportively play'd
All under the boughs of its green leafy shade.

O, oft have I taken my marbles and top,
And oft round its trunk in gay gambols would hop!
O, oft have we sportively pull'd its green boughs,
To weave into chaplets to bind round our brows!

How oft have I clamber'd its branches so green, To view all around me whate'er could be seen! And then would I watch the last gleam of the day Tinge softly its leaves, and die slowly away.

How oft would'st thou shelter, O beautiful tree, From Sol's scorching beams John and William and me!

And when the rude blast of the winter would blow, Thy shade was our screen from the rain and the

snow.

O, long may thy branches be toss'd in the breeze, And long may'st thou reign o'er the rest of the trees!

O, long may the rook in thy leaves build her nest, And long may thy branches in beauty be dress'd!

O, may no rude swain, with his rough, ruthless stroke,

E'er aim at thy downfal, my beautiful oak!

But long o'er thy leaves may the morning sun dawn,

And long may'st thou flourish the pride of the lawn!

NANETTE AND HER GRANDMOTHER. Suggested by a Fact which occurred in Ireland.

NEAR Erriston Mountain an old abbey stands,
Well known by its heap of white bones,
And its arches, all fring'd with dark nightshade

and rue,

And its numerous cells, and its wet dripping dew, And its tombs, and its tottering stones.

And in this dark abbey an old woman liv'd,
Indeed it is true what I tell,

78 NANETTE AND HER GRANDMOTHER.

As grey as the abbey, and almost as old, And as shaking, while, trembling with age and with cold,

She'd sit in her dark dripping cell.

Her hair was all white, and her body was bent,
And her hands they were wither'd and long;
Yet still she was cheerful, and oft the old crone,
While sitting as usual upon the cold stone,
Would sing an old drone of a song.

A gay little grandaughter, six years of age,
A poor little motherless child,

Whose father and mother once liv'd near the stream

Of Glinburn; but they died, and the little thing

came

To live in this abbey so wild.

Their curious abode was a cell in the wall,

Their parlour, their kitchen, and room;

Their bed at one end, and a fire made of peats,
A small marble slab, and two stones for their

seats,

Form'd the whole of this splendid saloon.

And every morning the child would bring home Furze bushes, some large and some small;

And then the old woman would light them so quick

Her mouth for a bellows-a long piece of stick
For poker, for shovel, and all.