I sold a sheep, as they had said,

And bought my little children bread, And they were healthy with their food; - it never did me good.

For me

A woeful time it was for me,

To see the end of all my gains,

The pretty flock which I had reared
With all my care and pains,

To see it melt like snow away !
For me it was a woeful day.

Another still! and still another!
A little lamb, and then its mother!

It was a vein that never stopped

Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped. Till thirty were not left alive

They dwindled, dwindled, one by one,

And I

may say, that many a time

I wished they all were gone

Reckless of what might come at last

Were but the bitter struggle past.

To wicked deeds I was inclined,

And wicked fancies crossed 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,

Bent oftentimes to flee from home,

And hide my head where wild beasts roam.

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;

God cursed me in my sore distress;
I prayed, yet every day I thought
I loved my children less;

And every week, and every day,

My flock it seemed 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 fetched it from the rock;

XXI.

REPENTANCE.

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

THE fields which with covetous spirit we sold,
Those beautiful fields, the delight of the day,
Would have brought us more good than a burthen of gold,
Could we but have been as contented as they.

When the troublesome Tempter beset us, said I, "Let him come, with his purse proudly grasped inhis hand; But, Allan, be true to me, Allan,- we'll die

Before he shall go with an inch of the land!"

There dwelt we, as happy as birds in their bowers;
Unfettered as bees that in gardens abide ;

We could do what we chose with the land, it was ours;
And for us the brook murmured that ran by its side.

But now we are strangers, go early or late;
And often, like one overburthened with sin,
With my hand on the latch of the half-opened gate,
I look at the fields - but I cannot go in!

When I walk by the hedge on a bright summer's day, Or sit in the shade of my grandfather's tree,

A stern face it puts on, as if ready to say,

"What ails you, that you must come creeping to me!"

With our pastures about us, we could not be sad;
Our comfort was near if we ever were crost;
But the comfort, the blessings, and wealth that we had,
We slighted them all, and our birth-right was lost.

Oh, ill-judging sire of an innocent son

Who must now be a wanderer!-but peace to that strain! Think of evening's repose when our labour was done, The Sabbath's return

and its leisure's soft chain!

And in sickness, if night had been spari ng of sleep, How cheerful, at sunrise, the hill where I stood, Looking down on the kine, and our treasure of sheep That besprinkled the field-'twas like youth in my blood!

Now I cleave to the house, and am dull as a snail; And, oftentimes, hear the church-bell with a sigh, That follows the thought- We've no land in the vale, Save six feet of earth where our forefathers lie!