Puslapio vaizdai
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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
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; Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep-and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

-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 a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; *

OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.†

A PASTORAL.

THE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never never ending song,
To welcome in the May.

The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest ;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;

Or through the glittering vapours dart
In
very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind—or done.‡

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim :

* Written at Grasmere, 1800.

+ Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall.

It seems they have no work to do,

Or that their work is done.-Edit. 1815.

And thus, as happy as the day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.

Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.

A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
"Down to the stump of yon old yew
We'll for our whistles run a race."
-Away the shepherds flew;

They leapt they ran-and when they came.
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,

Seeing that he should lose the prize,

"Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries—
James stopped with no good will :
Said Walter then, exulting; "Here
You'll find a task for half a year.

Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross-
Come on, and tread where I shall tread."
The other took him at his word,

And followed as he led.*

* Now cross where I shall cross-come on,

And follow me where I shall lead

The other took him at his word,

But did not like the deed.-Edit. 1815.

It was a spot which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go;

Into a chasm a mighty block

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock :

The gulf is deep below;

And, in a basin black and small,

Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand across the cleft
The challenger pursued his march;
And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained
The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan—
Again!-his heart within him dies-
His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost,
He totters, pallid as a ghost,
And, looking down, espies

A lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had slipped into the stream,
And safe without a bruise or wound
The cataract had borne him down
Into the gulf profound.

His dam had seen him when he fell,

She saw him down the torrent borne ;

And, while with all a mother's love

She from the lofty rocks above

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round,

Made answer to that plaintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was,
That sent this rueful cry; I ween

The Boy recovered heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferred their task ;
Nor was there wanting other aid-
A Poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages' books,
By chance had thither strayed;
And there the helpless lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompassed round.

He drew it from the troubled pool,*
And brought it forth into the light :
The Shepherds met him with his charge,
An unexpected sight!

Into their arms the lamb they took,

Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; +

Then up the steep ascent they hied,

And placed him at his mother's side;

And gently did the Bard

Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,

And bade them better mind their trade.

TO À BUTTERFLY.‡

I'VE watched you now a full half-hour,
Self-poised upon that yellow flower ;
And, little Butterfly! indeed

I know not if you sleep or feed.

* He drew it gently from the pool.-Edit. 1815.

† Said they, he's neither maimed nor scarred.-Edit. 1815. Written at Grasmere, 1802.

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