And fiercely by the arm he took her, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" To God that is the judge of all. She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing, He went complaining all the morrow His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, No word to any man he utters, LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY ARE ADDRESSED. It is the first mild day of March: The red-breast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, |