My stockings there I often knit, And often after sunset, sir, The first that died was little Jane ; Till God released her of her pain; So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven.' "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still X. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we strolled on our dry walk, Our quiet home all full in view, My thoughts on former pleasures ran; Our pleasant home, when spring began, A day it was when I could bear To think-and think-and think again; My boy was by my side, so slim The young lambs ran a pretty race; My little boy, which like you more," And tell me, had you rather be," I said, and held him by the arm, "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" In careless mood he looked at me, "Now, little Edward, say why so; I cannot tell, I do not know." "Why, this is strange," said I. "For, here are woods, and green-hills warm : There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea.' At this, my boy hung down his head, 'Why, Edward, tell me why?" His head he raised-there was in sight, Then did the boy his tongue unlock; "At Kilve there was no weather-cock, O dearest, dearest boy! my heart XI. RURAL ARCHITECTURE. THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a counsellor's bag; To the top of GREAT How did it please them to climb; A man on the peak of the crag. They built him of stones gathered up as they lay; And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones. Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the north Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the giant away. And what did these school-boys ?-The very next day XII. THE PET-LAMB. A PASTORAL. THE Qew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; A snow-white mountain lamb with a maiden at its side. No otner sheep were near, the lamb was all alone, * Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Amblesde. The lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone That I almost received her heart into my own. 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring, "What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull so at thy cord? What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart? If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home: Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this can And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now, It will not, will not rest !--poor creature, can it be And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear. Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; -As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, Again, and once again did I repeat the song; "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.' XIII. THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.* A PASTORAL. I. THE valley rings with mirth and joy; The magpie chatters with delight; Or through the glittering vapours dart II. Beneath a rock, upon the grass, The fragments of a Christmas hymn; 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 Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for water. it. fall. |