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"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in
Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran :
And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.
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 That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee? Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear, And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.
"Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; The little Brooks that seem all pastime and all play, When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey.
"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;
-As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced 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 looked with such a look, and she spake with such
That I almost received her heart into my own."
Written in GERMANY,
On one of the coldest days of the Century.
I must apprise 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 That gallops away with such fury and force
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
And now it is four degrees lower.
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
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 bemazed; The best of his skill he has tried;
His feelers methinks I can see him put forth
To the East and the West, and the South and the
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! Thy life I would gladly sustain
Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through
And back to the forests again.