"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 hear.

nor

“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,-
It seems they have no work to do,
Or that their work 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,—

That plaintive cry! which up the hill

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.