"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 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,-
Boys that have had no work to do,
Or work that now is 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:

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,—

The plaintive cry! which up the hill

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

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 He stopped with no good will :

Said Walter then, "Your task is here, 'T will baffle you for half a year.

"Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross-
Come on, and in my footsteps tread!"
The other took him at his word,
And followed as he led.

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.