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"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are

now,

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough; My Playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"It will not, will not rest!-poor Creature, can it be That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in

thee?

Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,

And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

" Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair! I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come

there;

The little Brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like Lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard by. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep-and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

D2

-As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;

And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.

Again, and once again did I repeat the song;

"Nay," said I, "more than half to the Damsel must belong,

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such

a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

XIII.

THE

IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS;

OR,

DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.

A PASTORAL.

I.

THE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the Echoes play

A never, never ending song,

To welcome in the May.

The Magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain Raven's youngling Brood
Have left the Mother and the Nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;

Or through the glittering Vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.

* Ghyll in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland is a short, and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.

[blocks in formation]

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two Boys are sitting in the sun;
It seems they have no work to do
Or that their work is done.
On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas Hymn;
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call Stag-horn, or Fox's Tail,
Their rusty Hats they trim:

And thus, as happy as the Day,

Those Shepherds wear the time away.

III.

Along the river's stony marge

The Sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;

The Thrush is busy in the wood,

And carols loud and strong.

A thousand Lambs are on the rocks,

All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee; and more than all,
Those Boys with their green Coronal;
They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

IV.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our Whistles run a race."

-Away the Shepherds flew.

They leapt they ran-and when they came Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, Seeing that he should lose the prize, "Stop!" to his comrade Walter criesJames stopped with no good will: Said Walter then, "Your task is here, 'Twill keep you working half a year.

V.

"Now cross where I shall cross-come on,

And follow me where I shall lead"

The other took him at his word,

But did not like the deed.

It was a spot, which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go:

Into a chasm a mighty Block

Hath fallen, and made a Bridge of rock:

The gulph is deep below;

And in a bason black and small

Receives a lofty Waterfall.

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