Or hast been summoned to the deep, Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep An incommunicable sleep. IX. I look for ghosts; but none will force X. My apprehensions come in crowds; The very XI. Beyond participation lie If My troubles, and beyond relief: any chance to heave a sigh, They pity me, and not my grief. Then come to me, my Son, or send Some tidings that my woes may end; I have no other earthly friend! LINES, WRITTEN WHILE SAILING IN A BOAT AT EVENING. OW richly glows the water's breast HOW Before us tinged with evening hues, Such views the youthful Bard allure ; 1789. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. "Retine vim istam, falsa enim dicam, si coges.'-EUSEBIUS. I HAVE a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; One morn we strolled on our dry walk, My thoughts on former pleasures ran; A day it was when I could bear The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, Birds warbled round me-and each trace Kilve, thought I, was a favored place, My boy beside me tripped, so slim "Now tell me, had rather be," you I said, and took him by the arm, "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm?" In careless mood he looked at me, "Now, little Edward, say why so: My little Edward, tell me why ?" "For, here are woods, hills smooth and warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea." At this, my boy hung down his head, "Why, Edward, tell me why ?" His head he raised-there was in sight, Then did the boy his tongue unlock, O dearest, dearest boy! my heart 1798. THE NORMAN BOY. HIGH on a broad unfertile tract of forest-skirted Down, Nor kept by Nature for herself, nor made by man his own, From home and company remote and every playful joy, Served, tending a few sheep and goats, a ragged Norman boy. Him never saw I, nor the spot, but from an English Dame, Stranger to me and yet my friend, a simple notice came, With suit that I would speak in verse of that sequestered child Whom, one bleak winter's day, she met upon the dreary Wild. His flock, along the woodland's edge with relics sprinkled o'er Of last night's snow, beneath a sky threatening the fall of more, Where tufts of herbage tempted each, were busy at their feed, And the poor Boy was busier still, with work of anxious heed. There was he, where of branches rent and withered and decayed, For covert from the keen north wind, his hands a but had made. |