What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favor'd plant!

The Spring for me a garland weaves
Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That You might look on me and say

This plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold,

To me hath often flown,

Here in my Blossoms to behold

Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade the mother ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see

The love, they to each other make,
And the sweet joy, which they partake,
It is a joy to me."

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued

Her speech, until the stars of night

Their journey had renew'd.

But in the branches of the Oak

Two Ravens now began to croak
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling Bees
To feed and murmur there.

One night the Wind came from the North

And blew a furious blast,

At break of day I ventur❜d forth

And near the Cliff I pass'd.

The storm had fall'n upon the Oak

And struck him with a mighty stroke,

And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away;

And in one hospitable Cleft

The little careless Broom was left

To live for many a day.

LUCY GRAY,

2

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the Wild,

I chanc'd to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wild Moor,

The sweetest Thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the Town must go,

And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother thro' the snow."

"That, Father! will I gladly do ;

'Tis scarcely afternoon

The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon."

At this the Father rais'd his hook

And snapp'd a faggot-band;

He plied his work, and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,
She wander'd up and down,

And many a hill did Lucy climb

But never reach'd the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood

That overlook'd the Moor;

And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood

A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd

"In Heaven we all shall meet !

When in the snow the Mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.