And other sheep from her I raised,
As healthy sheep as you might see;
And then I married, and was rich
As I could wish to be;
Of sheep I number'd a full score,
And every year increased my store.
"Year after year my stock it grew;
And from this one, this single ewe,
Full fifty comely sheep I rais'd,
As sweet a flock as ever graz'd!
Upon the mountain did they feed;
They throve, and we at home did thrive:
This lusty lamb, of all my store,
Is all that is alive;
And now I care not if we die,
And perish all of poverty.
"Six children, sir, had I to feed;
Hard labour in a time of need!
My pride was tamed, and in our grief
I of the parish ask'd relief.
They said I was a wealthy man
My sheep upon the mountain fed -
And it was fit that thence I took
Whereof to buy us bread."
"Do this; how can we give to you,' They cried, "what to the poor is due?"
"I sold a sheep, as they had said,
And bought my little children bread,
And they were healthy with their food;
For me, it never did me good.
A woeful time it was for me
To see the end of all my gains, -
The pretty flock which I had rear'd,
With all my care and pains,-
To see it melt like snow away !
For me it was a woeful day.
"Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!
It was a vein that never stopp'd
Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd.
Till thirty were not left alive,
They dwindled, dwindled, one by one;
And I may say that, many a time,
I wish'd they all were gone
Reckless of what might come at last,
Were but the bitter struggle past.
"To wicked deeds I was inclin'd,
And wicked fancies cross'd my mind;
And every man I chanced to see,
I thought he knew some ill of me.
No peace, no comfort, could I find ;
No ease, within doors, or without;
And crazily, and wearily,
I went my work about,
Bent oftentimes to flee from home,
And hide my head where wild beasts roam
"Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me,
As dear as my own children be;
For daily with my growing store,
I lov'd
my children more and more.
Alas! it was an evil time!
God cursed me in my sore distress;
I pray'd, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;
And every week, and every day,
My flock it seem'd to melt away.
66 They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see!
From ten to five, from five to three,
A lamb, a wether, and an ewe;
And then at last from three to two:
And, of my fifty, yesterday
I had but only one;
- And here it lies upon my arm, Alas! and I have none;
To-day I fetch'd it from the rock;
It is the last of all my flock!"
40. VICTORIA'S TEARS.
"MAIDEN, heir of kings,
A king hath left his place;
The majesty of death hath swept
All other from his face.
And thou upon thy mother's breast,
No longer lean adown
But take the glory for the rest,
And rule the land that loves thee best."
The maiden wept,
She wept to wear a crown.
They deck'd her courtly halls-
They rein'd her hundred steeds-
They shouted, at her palace gate,
"A noble queen succeeds!"
Her name has stirr'd the mountains' sleep,
Her praise has fill'd the town;
And mourners, God had stricken deep, Look'd hearkening up, and did not weep! Alone she wept,
Who wept to wear a crown.
She saw no purple shine,
For tears had dimm'd her eyes:
She only knew her childhood's flowers
Were happier pageantries!
And while the heralds play'd their part,
For million shouts to drown,
"God save the Queen!" from hill to mart,
She heard, through all, her beating heart,
And turned and wept,
She wept to wear a crown.
God save thee, weeping queen,
Thou shalt be well beloved,
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move
As those pure tears have moved.
The nature in thine eye we see,
Which tyrants cannot own,
The love that guardeth liberties;
Strange blessing on the nation lies,
Whose sovereign wept,
Yea, wept to wear a crown.
God bless thee, weeping queen,
With blessing more divine;
And fill with better love than earth's
That tender heart of thine;
That when the thrones of earth shall be
As low as graves brought down,
A pierced hand may give to thee
The crown which angels shout to see!
Thou wilt not weep
To wear that heavenly crown!
SWEET AUBURN.
[From THE DESERTED VILLAGE.]
WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
How often have I paused on every charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!
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