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النشر الإلكتروني
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THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink; And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature,

drink!"

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied

A snow-white mountain-lamb with a Maiden at its side.

If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen

chain,

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain; For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the lamb was all The rain and storm are things that scarcely can

alone,

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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 know'st 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,

XV.

TO H. C.

SIX YEARS OLD.

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and Thou faery voyager! that dost float

new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they

are now,

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

In such clear water, that thy boat
To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
May rather seem

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be For what may be thy lot in future years.

thy fold.

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thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
But when she sate within the touch of thee.
O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite;

Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair! Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

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,

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For she looked with such a look, and she spake Thou Soul, that art the Eternity of thought!

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