‘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 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 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 seemed, 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; ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘more than half to the damsel must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own.’ STEPPING WESTWARD _While my fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch Katrine_, _one fine evening after sunset_, _in our road to a hut where in the course of our tour we had been hospitably entertained some weeks before_, _we met_, _in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region_, _two well-dressed women_, _one of whom said to us_, _by way of greeting_, ‘_What_, _you are stepping westward_?’ ‘_What_, _you are stepping westward_?’—‘_Yea_.’ —’Twould be a wildish destiny, If we, who thus together roam In a strange land, and far from home, Were in this place the guests of chance; Yet who would stop, or fear t’ advance, Though home or shelter he had none, With such a sky to lead him on? The dewy ground was dark and cold; Behind, all gloomy to behold; And stepping westward seemed to be A kind of heavenly destiny: I liked the greeting; ’twas a sound Of something without place or bound; And seemed to give me spiritual right To travel through that region bright. The voice was soft, and she who spake Was walking by her native lake; The salutation had to me The very sound of courtesy; Its power was felt; and while my eye Was fixed upon the glowing sky, The echo of the voice enwrought A human sweetness with the thought Of travelling through the world that lay Before me in my endless way. THE CHILDLESS FATHER ‘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.’