Darker it grew, and darker fears
Came o'er her troubled mind;
When now, a short, quick step she hears,
Come patting close behind.
She turned, it stopped, nought could she see
Upon the gloomy plain;
But as she strove the sprite to see,
She heard the same again.
Now terror seized her quaking frame,
For, where the path was bare,
The trotting ghost kept on the same-
She muttered many a prayer.
Yet once again, amidst her fright,
She tried what sight could do ;
When through the cheating gleams of night,
A monster! stood in view.
Regardless of whate'er she felt,
It followed down the plain;
She owned her sins, and down she knelt,
And said her prayers again.
Then on she sped, and hope grew strong,
The white park-gate in view;
Which pushing hard, so long it swung
That ghost and all past through!
Loud fell the gate against the post,
Her heart-strings like to crack;
For much she feared the grisly ghost
Would leap upon her back.
Still on-pit-pat-the goblin went,
As it had done before;
Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.
Out came her husband, much surprised;
Out came her daughter dear;
Good-natured souls! all unadvised
Of what they had to fear.
His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage floor;
The matron learned to love the sound
That frightened her before.
A favourite the ghost became,
And 'twas his fate to thrive;
And long he lived and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive;
For many a laugh went through the vale,
And some conviction too
Each thought some other goblin tale
Perhaps was just as true.
Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills make a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green box-wood not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
One child did it bear, and that child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
"The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead."
But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak ;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
WORDSWORTH.
NATURE! holy, meek, and mild,
Thou dweller on the mountain wild;
Thou haunter of the lonesome wood;
Thou wanderer by the secret flood;
Thou lover of the daisied sod,
Where spring's white foot hath lately trod;
Finder of flowers fresh-sprung and new,
Where sunshine comes to seek the dew;
Twiner of bowers for lovers meet;
Smoother of sods for poets' feet;
Thrice-sainted matron! in whose face,
Who looks in love will light on grace;
Far worshipped Goddess! one who gives
Her love to him who wisely lives ;-
Oh! take my hand and place me on
The daisied footstool of thy throne;
And pass before my darkened sight.
Thy hand which lets in charmed light;
And touch my soul, and let me see
The
ways of God, fair dame, in thee.
Or lead me forth o'er dales and meads,
Even as her child the mother leads;
Where corn, yet milk in its green ears,
The dew upon its shot-blade bears;
Where blooming clover grows, and where
She licks her scented foot, the hare;
Where twin-nuts cluster thick, and springs
The thistle with ten thousand stings;
Untrodden flowers and unpruned trees,
Gladdened with songs of birds and bees;
The ring where last the fairies danced-
The place where dank Will latest glanced—
The tower round which the magic shell
Of minstrel threw its lasting spell-
The stream that steals its way along,
To glory consecrate by song:
And while we saunter, let thy speech
God's glory and his goodness preach.
Or, when the sun sinks, and the bright
Round moon sheds down her lustrous light;
When larks leave song, and men leave toiling;
And hearths burn clear, and maids are smiling:
When hoary hinds, with rustic saws,
Lay down to youth thy golden laws;
And beauty is her wet cheek laying
To her sweet child, and silent praying;
With thee in hallowed mood I'll go,
Through scenes of gladness or of woe:
Thy looks inspire, thy chastened speech,
Me more than man hath taught, shall teach;
And much that's gross, and more that's vain,
As chaff from corn, shall leave my strain.
I feel thy presence and thy power;
As feels the rain yon parched flower;
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