V.

ADDRESS TO A CHILD,

During a boisterous Winter Evening.

BY A FEMALE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

WHAT way does the Wind come? What way does

he go?

He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height

Which the goat cannot climb takes his sounding flight.

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes
There's never a Scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And rings a sharp larum ; — but if you should look
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

Yet seek him, — and what shall you find in the place?

Nothing but silence and empty space,

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left for a bed for beggars or thieves!

As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

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:

But let him range round; he does us no harm, We build up the fire, we're snug and warm ; Untouch'd by his breath see the candle shines bright, And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read, hush! that half-stifled

knell,

Methinks '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.

VI.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

BY THE SAME.

A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is passed
Since your dear Mother went away, -
And she to-morrow will return;
To-morrow is the happy day.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,-
"Mother come to me!"

And shouted,

Louder and louder did he shout

With witless hope to bring her near; "Nay, patience! patience, little Boy! Your tender Mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through ;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits? what can he do?

No strife disturbs his Sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,

The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;

She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her Brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his Sister's glee;
They hug the Infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then, settling into fond discourse, We rested in the garden bower; While sweetly shone the evening sun In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done, – Our rambles by the swift brook's side Far as the willow-skirted pool

Where two fair swans together glide.