"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! "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, And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, 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." A never, never-ending song, The magpie chatters with delight; Beneath a rock, upon the grass, On pipes of sycamore they play And thus, as happy as the day, Along the river's stony marge A thousand lambs are on the rocks, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. |