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THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW.
And these shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn.'
And then upspoke a Brownie
With a long beard on his chin:
'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,
'And I want some more to spin.
I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,
And I want to spin another,-
A little sheet for Mary's bed,
And an apron for her mother.'
And with that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;
And then on the top of the Caldon-Low
There was no one left but me.
But as I came down from the hill-top,
I heard afar below
How busy the jolly miller was,
And how merry the wheel did go.
And I peeped into the widow's field;
And sure enough was seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn
All standing stiff and green.
Now this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see;
So prithee make my bed, mother,
For I'm tired as I can be."
EVER charming, ever new,
When will the landscape tire the view!
The fountain's fall, the river's flow,
The woody valleys warm and low,
The windy summit wild and high,
Roughly rushing on the sky;
The pleasant seat, the ruin'd tower,
The naked rock, the shady bower;
The town and village, dome and farm,—
Each give each a double charm,
As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm.
See on the mountain's southern side,
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide,
How close and small the hedges lie!
What streaks of meadows cross the eye!
A step, methinks, may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem;
So we mistake the future's face,
Ey'd through hope's deluding glass :
As yon summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which to those who journey near,
Barren, brown, and rough appear ;
Still we tread the same coarse way,-
The present's still a cloudy day.
Oh, may I with myself agree,
And never covet what I see!
Content me with an humble shade,
My passions tam'd, my wishes laid!
For while our wishes wildly roll,
We banish quiet from the soul:
'Tis thus the busy beat the air,
And misers gather wealth and care.
Now, even now, my joys run high,
As on the mountain-turf I lie ;
While the wanton zephyr sings,
And in the vale perfumes his wings;
While the waters murmur deep,
While the shepherd charms his sheep,
While the birds unbounded fly,
And with music fill the sky;
Now, even now, my joys run high.
Be full, ye courts; be great who will;
Search for Peace with all your skill;
Open wide the lofty door,
Seek her on the marble floor:
In vain you search—she is not there;
In vain ye search the domes of care!
Grass and flow'rs Quiet treads
On the meads and mountain-heads,
Along with Pleasure close allied,
Ever by each other's side;
And often by the murmuring rill
Hears the thrush, while all is still
Within the groves of Grongar Hill.
DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.
"Он, tell me about that bright, bright star;
I have watch'd it long, and it seems so far,
And yet so near; oh, tell to me
How this wonderful thing may be !"
"Thy question seems simple, my darling child" (Then answered the lady with voice so mild); "Yet, dear one, I cannot tell to thee, How this wonderful thing may be ;
I see the star, and so dost thou,
Twinkling (as ever it twinkleth) now;
But how, or why, it twinkleth so,
Nor I, nor thou, my child, may know.
We see its beauty is very bright,-
That it adds new beauty to beautiful night;
And we know that He hath fixed it there,
The God who heareth thine evening prayer.
And so we know it is very meet
That we with love that star should greet;
As it looketh down from its home above
To lead our soul to the Father of love.
I know but little, my gentle child"
(Thus spoke the lady with voice so mild):
"I am a child in things so high
As the wonders of earth, and air, and sky.
But I will teach thee all I can,
And then when thou growest to be a man,
Thou wilt know that the depth of a mother's love Is wondrous and strange as that star above.
Though she may be numbered with the dead,
Whose hand now rests on thy shining head,
Her spirit shall look from the land afar,
And yet seem near thee like that bright star."
ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of Spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts the new voice of Spring to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale;