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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
And dreams of things which thou can'st 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 seem'd as I retrac'd 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
That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."
Written in GERMANY,
On one of the coldest days of the Century.
I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A fig for your languages, German and Norse,
Let me have the song of the Kettle,
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough, And now it is four degrees lower.
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps,
And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat,
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd,
His feelers methinks I can see him put forth
To the East and the West, and the South and the North, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh, His eyesight and hearing are lost,
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws,
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
No Brother, no Friend has he near him, while I
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing,
Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds
And back to the forests again.