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Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,
The sun has burnt her coal-black hair;
Her eyebrows have a rusty stain,
And she came far from over the main.
She had a baby on her arm,
Or else she were alone;
And underneath the hay-stack warm,
And on the greenwood stone,
She talked and sung the woods among,
And it was in the English tongue.


Whilst, around her lone ark sweeping,

Wailed the winds and waters wild,
Her young cheeks all wan with weeping,

Danäe clasped her sleeping child ;
And “Alas,” (cried she,) “my dearest,

What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine! But nor wrongs nor woes thou fearest,

In that sinless rest of thine,
Faint the moonbeams break above thee,

And, within here, all is gloom;
But fast wrapt in arms that love thee,

Little reck'st thou of our doom.
Not the rude spray round thee flying,

Has een damped thy clustering hair,-
On thy purple mantlet lying,

O mine Innocent, my Fair !
Yet, to thee were sorrow sorrow,

Thou would'st lend thy little ear,
And this heart of thine might borrow

Haply yet a moment's cheer.
But no; slumber on, Babe, slumber;

Slumber, Ocean-waves; and you,
My dark troubles, without number,-

O, that ye would slumber too!
Though with wrongs they've brimmed my

Grant Jove, that, in future years,
This boy may defeat their malice,
And avenge his mother's tears."

SIMONIDES. (Greek.) Translation of WILLIAM PETER,

“Sweet babe! they say that I am mad;
But nay, my heart is far too glad;
And I am happy when I sing
Full many a sad and doleful thing.
Then, lovely baby, do not fear!
I pray thee have no fear of me;
But safe as in a cradle, here,
My lovely baby! thou shalt bo.
To thee I know too much I owe;
I cannot work thee any woe.


“A fire was once within my brain,
And in my head a dull, dull pain;
And fiendish faces, one, two, three,
Hung at my breast, and pulled et me.
But then there came a sight of joy ;
It came at once to do me good :
I waked, and saw my little boy,
My little boy of flesh and blood;
O joy for me that sight to see!
For he was here, and only he.



Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded

The minutes parting one by one like rays,

That fade upon a summer's eve.
But oh! what charm, or magic numbers
Can give me back the gentle slumbers

Those weary, happy days did leave ? When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this, E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

“Suck, little babe, O suck again !
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips, I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
O press me with thy little hand!
It loosens something at my chest;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree-
It comes to cool my babe and me.


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They wept,—and, turning homeward, cried,
“In heaven we all shall meet;”.

When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

UNDER my window, under my window,

All in the Midsummer weather, Then downwards from the steep hill's edge Three little girls with fluttering curls

They tracked the footmarks small; Flit to and fro together :And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And by the low stone-wall;

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,

And Kate with her scarlet feather.
And then an open field they crossed-
The marks were still the same:

Under my window, under my window,
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;

Leaning stealthily over, And to the bridge they came.

Merry and clear, the voice I hear

Of each glad-hearted rover. They followed from the snowy bank Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses; Those footmarks, one by one,

And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, Into the middle of the plank;

As merry as bees in clover. And further there were none !

Under my window, under my window, -Yet some maintain that to this day

In the blue Midsummer weather, She is a living child;

Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

I catch them all together :Upon the lonesome wild.

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And Kate with the scarlet feather.

And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song

Under my window, under my window,
That whistles in the wind.

And off through the orchard closes;

While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,

They scamper and drop their posies;
But dear little Kate takes nought amiss,
And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,

And I give her all my roses.



In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope
Down which the child would roll; to pluck

gay flowers,
Make posies in the sun, which the child's

hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled,) Would throw away, and straight take up

again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the

lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.


I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups-
Those flowers made of light!

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