Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity, Even so this happy Creature of herself Is all-sufficient; solitude to her Light are her sallies as the tripping Fawn's Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers; V. ADDRESS TO A CHILD, DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. By a female Friend of the Author. WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height, Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight; He tosses about in every bare tree, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; But how he will come, and whither he goes He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And rings a sharp 'larum ; but, if you should look, There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk, Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, But let him range round; he does us no harm, We build up the fire, we're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light; Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell, Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. Come now we'll to bed! and when we are there and what shall we care? we'll not let him in; we'll laugh at his din; VI. THE MOTHER'S RETURN. By the same. A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is passed O blessed tidings! thought of joy! Louder and louder did he shout, I told of hills, and far-off towns, No strife disturbs his Sister's breast; Her joy is like an instinct, joy -- Her Brother now takes up the note, Then, settling into fond discourse, We told o'er all that we had done, We talked of change, of winter gone, Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And "all since Mother went away!" To her these tales they will repeat, But, see, the evening Star comes forth! To bed the Children must depart; A moment's heaviness they feel, and in a merry fit "Tis gone I could have joined the wanton chase. No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the Fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray "To-night will be a stormy night- "That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon." |