'Six children, sir, had I to feed; Hard labour, in a time of need!

My pride was tamed, and in our grief, I of the parish ask'd relief, They said I was a wealthy man; My sheep upon the uplands fed, And it was fit that thence I took Whereof to buy us bread.

'Do this; how can we give to you,'

They cried, 'what to the poor is due?'

6

'I sold a sheep, as they had said, And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; For me--it never did me good.

A woful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, The pretty flock which I had rear'd With all my care and pains, To see it melt like snow away-- For me it was a woful day.

7

Another still! and still another!

A little lamb, and then its mother!

It was a vein that never stopp'd-- Like blood-drops from my heart they dropp'd, Till thirty were not left alive; They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say that many a time I wish'd they all were gone; Reckless of what might come at last, Were but the bitter struggle past.

8

To wicked deeds I was inclined, And wicked fancies cross'd my mind; And every man I chanced to see, I thought he knew some ill of me.

No peace, no comfort could I find, No ease within doors or without; And crazily and wearily I went my work about; And oft was moved to flee from home And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

9

'Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me, As dear as my own children be; For daily with my growing store I loved my children more and more.

Alas! it was an evil time; G.o.d cursed me in my sore distress; I pray'd, yet every day I thought I loved my children less; And every week, and every day, My flock it seem'd to melt away; They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see From ten to five, from five to three, A lamb, a wether, and a ewe; And then at last from three to two; And, of my fifty, yesterday I had but only one: And here it lies upon my arm, Alas, and I have none; To-day I fetch'd it from the rock-- It is the last of all my flock.'

_W. Wordsworth_

CLXI

_THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST_

Little Ellie sits alone 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the gra.s.s; And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by; And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow waters' flow-- Now she holds them nakedly In her hands, all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone, And the smile she softly useth Fills the silence like a speech: While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooseth For her future, within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooseth--'I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds!

He shall love me without guile; And to _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds.

'And the steed it shall be red-roan, And the lover shall be n.o.ble, With an eye that takes the breath, And the lute he plays upon Shall strike ladies into trouble, As his sword strikes men to death.

'And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure, And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

'He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover, Through the crowds that praise his deeds; And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto _him_ I will discover That swan's nest among the reeds.'

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gaily,-- Tied the bonnet, donn'd the shoe, And went homeward round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads-- Past the boughs she stoops and stops: Lo! the wild swan had deserted, And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow.

If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds.

_E. B. Browning_

CLXII

_SONG_

I wander'd by the brook-side, I wander'd by the mill,-- I could not hear the brook flow, The noisy wheel was still; There was no burr of gra.s.shopper, Nor chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree, I watch'd the long, long shade.

And as it grew still longer I did not feel afraid; For I listen'd for a foot-fall, I listen'd for a word,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not; The night came on alone; The little stars sat one by one Each on his golden throne; The evening air pa.s.s'd by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr'd,-- But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing, When some one stood behind; A hand was on my shoulder, I knew its touch was kind: It drew me nearer, nearer; We did not speak a word,-- For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

_R. M. Milnes_

CLXIII

_TIMOTHY_

Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!

Not a soul in the village this morning will stay: 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 ap.r.o.ns and caps white as snow, The girls on the hills make a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before, Fill'd 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.