"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, belike1 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

66

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

And it seem'd, 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;

," said I,

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belong!-"

more than half to the damsel must

For she look'd with such a look, and she spoke with such a

tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

39

TRUE HAPPINESS.

IF solid happiness we prize,

Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam.
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,
And that dear spot, our home.

4 belike, probably.

40

EPITAPH ON A HARE.*

ERE lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo !

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,

And to domestic bounds confined,

Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took

His pittance every night,

He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;

Thistles, or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel;
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,

Sliced carrot pleased him well.

*The poet Cowper, in 1774, got three leverets, or young hares, to amuse him as pets, during an illness. Their names were Puss, Tiney, and Bess. The epitaph is on Tiney, which never grew tame. Puss and Bess both became quite tame. They were, all three, males.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.

Ilis frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear;

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut shade,
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

IIe, still more agèd, feels the shocks
From which no care can save :-
And, partner once of Tiney's box,

Must soon partake his grave.

A Tynemouth Ship.

THE "Northern Star"

Sail'd over the bar
Bound to the Baltic Sea;
In the morning gray
She stretch'd away :—
'Twas a weary day to me!

For many an hour

In sleet and shower

By the lighthouse rock I stray;

And watch till dark

For the winged bark

Of him that is far away,

The castle's bound

I wander round,
Amidst the grassy graves:
But all I hear

Is the north-wind drear,
And all I see are the waves.
The "Northern Star"

Is set afar!

Set in the Baltic Sea :

And the waves have spread

The sandy bed

That holds my Love from me.

I Tynemouth is a sea-port, at the mouth of the Tyne, below Newcastle.

2 Tynemouth Castle, an old ruin, the enclosure of which is now used as a

graveyard.

ON A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU,
KILLING A YOUNG BIRD.

SPANIEL, Beau, that fares like you,
Well fed, and at his ease,
Should wiser be than to pursue
Each trifle that he sees.

But you have killed a tiny bird,
Which flew not till to-day,

Against my orders, whom you heard
Forbidding you the prey.

Nor did you kill that you might eat,
And ease a doggish pain,

For him, though chased with furious heat,
You left where he was slain.

Nor was he of the thievish sort,
Or one whom blood allures,1
But innocent was all his sport
Whom you have torn for yours.
My dog! what remedy2 remains,
Since, teach
you all I can,

I see you, after all my pains,

So much resemble man?

BEAU'S REPLY.

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird

In spite of your command,

A louder voice than yours I heard,
And harder to withstand.

'allures, tempts.

2 remedy, curo.