Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can Fresh water from the brook as clear as ever ran; And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new. 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 can'st 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 needst not dread the raven in the sky, He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by, Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be, Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee? As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, And it seem'd as I retrac'd 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 look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own." _Written in GERMANY, On one of the coldest days of the Century_. _I must apprize the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms_. A fig for your languages, German and Norse, Let me have the song of the Kettle, And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal. Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff, But her pulses beat slower and slower. The weather in Forty was cutting and rough, And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough, And _now_ it is four degrees lower. Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps A child of the field, or the grove, And sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat Has seduc'd the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove. Alas! how he fumbles about the domains Which this comfortless oven environ, He cannot find out in what track he must crawl Now back to the tiles, and now back to the hall, And now on the brink of the iron. Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemaz'd, The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the East and the West, and the South and the North, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.