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And hitherward pursued its way:
This ponderous Block was caught by me, And o'er your head, as you may see, 'Tis hanging to this day!
The Thing had better been asleep,
Whatever thing it were,
Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep,
That first did plant you there.
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless Shepherd-boy
To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.
From me this friendly warning take".
The Broom began to doze,
And thus to keep herself awake
Did gently interpose :
"My thanks for your discourse are due ; That more than what you say is true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, be we young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.
Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man,
Who is not wise at all..
For me, why should I wish to roam?
This spot is my paternal home,
It is my pleasant Heritage;
My Father, many a happy year,
Here spread his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.
Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!
On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This Plant can never die.
The Butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,
Here in my Blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.
When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade, the mother Ewe
Lies with her infant Lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,
And the sweet joy, which they partake,
It is a joy to me.”
"Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;
The Broom might have pursued
Her speech, until the stars of night
Their journey had renewed:
But in the branches of the Oak
Two Ravens now began to croak
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling Bees
To rest and murmur there.
“One night, my Children! from the North There came a furious blast;
At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the Cliff I passed.
The storm had fallen upon the Oak
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And, in one hospitable Cleft,
The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day."
SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.
FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORLAND.
SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from fairy power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
Turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now, beneath the starry sky,
Rest the widely-scattered sheep; -
Ply, the pleasant labour, ply!-
For the spindle, while they sleep,
With a motion smooth and fine
Gathers up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest,
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.