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A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did thee yean Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.
"Thou knowest that twice a day I have brought thee in this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and
"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the plough;
My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
"Alas! the mountain-tops that look so green and
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 spoke with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own."
THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. - Blake.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
"Look on the rising sun,- there God does live,
"And we are put on earth a little space,
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
"For when our souls have learnt the heat to bear, The clouds will vanish, we shall hear his voice, Saying, 'Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.""
Thus did my mother say, and kisséd me;
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
I'll shade him from the heat till he can bear
THE SPARTAN BOY.-Miss Lamb.
WHEN I the memory repeat
Of the heroic actions great,
Which, in contempt of pain and death,
That can in fortitude exceed
Or would the scorching ember shake
Disturbance at the sacred rite;
In his flesh. The standers-by
MY BIRTHDAY.-Miss Lamb.
A DOZEN years since, in this house what commotion,
I've been told by my friends (if they do not belie ine)
But vain are the hopes which are formed by a parent,
I nourished within me the seeds of decline.
On a sick-bed I lay, through the flesh my bones started, My grief-wasted frame to a skeleton fell;
My physicians, foreboding, took leave and departed, And they wished me dead now who wished me well.
Life and soul were kept in by a mother's assistance, Who struggled with faith, and prevailed 'gainst despair;
Like an angel she watched o'er the lamp of existence, And never would leave while a glimmer was there.
By her care I'm alive now; — but what retribution
The chance-rooted tree that by way-sides is planted, Where no friendly hand will watch o'er its young shoots,
Has less blame if, in autumn, when produce is wanted, Enriched by small culture, it put forth small fruits.
But that which with labor in hotbeds is reared,