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That may record my story: nor let words—
By One who would have died a thousand times,
A hermitage has furnished fit relief
Less patient in their wretchedness, have fallen,
In Heaven, and Mercy gives me leave to die.
But how he will come, and whither he goes, There's never a scholar in England knows.
CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE
LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
Than when both young and old sit gathered round
And take delight in its activity;
Even so this happy Creature of herself
Is all-sufficient; solitude to her
Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
As soon as 'tis daylight to-morrow, with me
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Drive them down, like men in a battle:
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ; -But let him range round; he does us no harm,
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.
We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,- but that half-stifled knell, Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell. -Come now we 'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care? He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in ; May drive at the windows,-we 'll laugh at his din; Let him seek his own home wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me. 1806.
ADDRESS TO A CHILD,
DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING.
BY MY SISTER.
WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does
He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
THE MOTHER'S RETURN.
BY THE SAME.
A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is past