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She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs,
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her, for her the willow bend,
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
A beauty that shall mould her form
By silent sympathy.

The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her, and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell,
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.

Thus Nature spake-The work was done
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene,

of what has been, And never more will be.



The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
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.

No other sheep were near, the Lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;
With one knee on the


did the little Maiden kneel, While to that Mountain Lamb she gave its evening meal.

The Lamb while from her hand he thus his supper took Seem'd to feast with head and ears, and his tail with pleasure

shook. “ Drink, pretty Creature, drink," she said in such a tone That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a Child of beauty rare,
I watch'd them with delight, they were a lovely pair.
And now with empty Can the Maiden turn'd away,
But ere ten yards were gone her footsteps did she stay.

Towards the Lamb she look’d, and from that shady place
I unobserv'd could see the workings of her face :
If Nature to her tongue could measur'd numbers bring
Thus, thought I, to her Lamb that little Maid would sing.

“ What ails thee, Young One? What? Why pull so at thy

cord ?
Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board ?
Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be,
Rest little Young One, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart? Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art : This grass is tender

these flowers they have no peers, And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears.


If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou can'st gain,
For rain and mountain storms the like thou need'st not fear,
The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.

Rest, little Young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day


Father found thee first in places far away : Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none, And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home, A blessed day for thee ! then whither would'st thou roam ? 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
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

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