How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks The wayward brain, to faunter through a wood! An old place, full of many a lovely brood, Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks; And wild rofe tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks, Like to a bonny lass, who plays her pranks At wakes and fairs with wandering mountebanks,— When she stands crefting the clown's head, and mocks The crowd beneath her. Verily, I think, Such place to me is sometimes like a dream, Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link, Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink, Mark the concentrated hazels that enclose Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray In which some ancient chieftain finds repofe Of a dark chamber where the mighty fleep: To mimic Time's forlorn humanities. IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING. It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, And doth with his eternal motion make Dear child! dear girl! that walkeft with me here, U CALM IS ALL NATURE AS A RESTING WHEEL. Calm is all nature as a resting wheel. The kine are couch'd upon the dewy grass; Is cropping audibly his later meal : Dark is the ground, a slumber seems to steal HE dew was falling faft, the stars began to blink; drink!" And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied A fnow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its fide. No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone, While to that mountain lamb fhe gave its evening meal. The lamb, while from her hand he thus his fupper took, Seemed to feaft with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure fhook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink," fhe faid, in fuch a tone That I almoft received her heart into my own. 'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare! Towards the lamb fhe looked; and from that fhady place "What ails thee, young one? What? Why pull fo at thy cord? Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board ? "What is it thou would'ft feek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs, are they not ftrong? And beautiful thou art : This grafs is tender grafs; thefe flowers they have no peers; And that green corn, all day, is ruftling in thy ears! "If the fun be fhining hot, do but ftretch thy woollen chain, |