THE NORMAN BARON. [Dans les moments de la vie où la réflexion devient plus calme et plus profonde, où l'intérêt et l'avarice parlent moins haut que la raison, dans les instants de chagrin domestique, de maladie, et de péril de mort, les nobles se repentirent de posséder des serfs; comme d'une chose peu agréable à Dieu, qui avait créé tous les hommes à son image.j THIERRY CONQUETE DE L'ANGLETERRE. THE INDIAN HUNTER. WHEN the summer harvest was gathered in, Looked down where the valley lay stretched below He was a stranger there, and all that day The winds of autumn came over the woods, The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn, The moon of the harvest grew high and bright, When years had passed on, by that still lake side, And 'twas seen, as the waters moved deep and slow, That the hand was still grasping a hunter's bow. Till the treacherous pool Engulfs them in its whirling In the country, on every side Like a leopard's tawny and spotted bide, To the dry grass and the drier grain In the furrowed land The toilsome and patient oxen stand; The clover-scented gale, And the vapours that arise From the well-watered and smoking soil. For this rest in the furrow after toil Their large and lustrous eyes Seem to thank the Lord, More than man's spoken word Near at hand, From under the sheltering trees, His pastures, and his fields of grain, To the numberless beating drops He counts it as no sin That he sees therein Only his own thrift and gain. He can behold Aquarius old Walking the fenceless fieids of air. Of the clouds about him rolled The showery rain, As the farmer scatters his grain. He can behold Things manifold That have not yet been wholly told, Have not been wholly sung nor said. For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops Down to the graves of the dead, Down through chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head Of lakes and rivers underground; TO A CHILD. DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, With what a look of proud command Thousands of years in Indian seas Reposed of yore, Far down in the deep-sunken wells In some obscure and sunless place, And thus for thee, O little child, Beneath the burning, tropic clime, The Indian peasant, chasing the wild goat, In falling, clutched the frail arbute, The fibres of whose shallow root, Uplifted from the soil, betrayed The buried treasures of the pirate, Time. But, lo! thy door is left ajar! Thou turnest round D With quick and questioning eyes, Some source of wonder and surprise! Thou strivest, strugglest, to be free. Are now like prison walls to thee. Delight thee, nor the playthings on the floor Through these once solitary halls Jubilant, and they rejoice With the joy of thy young heart, No shadows of sadness From the sombre background of memory start. Once, ah, once, within these walls, One whom memory oft recalls, But what are these grave thoughts to thee? Out, out! into the open air! Thy only dream is liberty, Thou carest little how or where. I see thee eager at thy play, Now shouting to the apples on the tree, With cheeks as round and red as they; And now among the yellow stalks, Among the flowering shrubs and plants, Along the garden walks, The tracks of thy small carriage-wheels I trace, And see at every turn how they efface |