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“ And let all this be as it was before." · So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room,
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-
“I have been to blame, to blame! I have kill'd my son !
“I have kill'd him--but I loved him—my dear son!
“ May God forgive me! I have been to blame.
“Kiss me, my children!”
Then they clung about
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times,
And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundred fold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child,
Thinking of William
So those four abode
Within one house together; and as years
Went forward, Mary took another mate;
But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
31.-ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !
Thou messenger of spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thon a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant, with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.
The school-boy wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,
Starts the new voice of spring to hear,
And imitates the lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.
Sweet bird I thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear ;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee !
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.
32. — JOHN ANDERSON.
John ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;?
But now your brow is bald John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty 3 day John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we may totter down John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.
33. -- AFTER BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found That was so large and smooth and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh 66. Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “Who fell in the great victory. “I find them in the garden, “For there's many here about ; . “ And often when I go to plough “The ploughshare turns them out. “For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory.”
“ Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes ; “Now tell us all about the war, “ And what they fought each other for.” “It was the English,” Kaspar cried, “Who put the French to rout; “But what they fought each other for " I could not well make out, “But everybody said,” quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory. “My father lived at Blenheim then, “ Yon little stream hard by; “ They burnt his dwelling to the ground, “ And he was forced to fly: “So with his wife and child he fled, “Nor had he where to rest his head.
With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide, “ And many a childing mother then “And new-born baby died: “But things like that you know, must be “At every famous victory. “ They say it was a shocking sight “ After the field was won; “For many thousand bodies here “ Lay rotting 'in the sun: “But things like that you know, must be “ After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won “And our good Prince Eugene ;"
“Why 'twas a very wicked thing!”
Said little Wilhelmine ;
“Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.
“ And everybody praised the Duke
“Who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last ? "
Quoth little Peterkin.
6 Why that I cannot tell,” said he,
“ But 'twas a famous victory.”
34. — SIGNS OF RAIN.
The hollow winds begin to blow,
The clouds look black, the glass is low,
The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,
The spiders from their cobwebs peep:
Last night the sun went pale to bed,
The moon in halos hid her head ;
The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,
For, see, a rainbow spans the sky:
The walls are damp, the ditches smell,
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel.
Hark how the chairs and tables crack!
Old Betty's joints are on the rack ;
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,
The distant hills are seeming nigh.
How restless are the snorting swine;
The busy flies disturb the kine;
Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,
The cricket too, how sharp he sings;
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,
Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws.