You are preparing, as before, To deck your slender shape; And yet, just three years back—no more— You had a strange escape. Down from yon cliff a fragment broke ; It thundered down, with fire and smoke, This ponderous Block was caught by me, 'Tis hanging to this day! The Thing had better been asleep, Whatever thing it were, Or Breeze, or Bird, or Dog, or Sheep, That first did plant you there. For you and your green twigs decoy To come and slumber in your bower; Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! Will perish in one hour. From me this friendly warning take The Broom began to doze, And thus to keep herself awake Did gently interpose: My thanks for your discourse are due; That more than what you say is true, I know, and I have known it long; Frail is the bond by which we hold Our being, whether young or old, Wise, foolish, weak, or strong. Disasters, do the best we can, And he is oft the wisest man, For me, why should I wish to roam ? This spot is my paternal home, It is my pleasant heritage; My Father many a happy year, Here spread his careless blossoms, here Attained a good old age. Even such as his may be my lot. What cause have I to haunt My heart with terrors? Am I not On me such bounty Summer pours, That I am covered o'er with flowers; This Plant can never die. The Butterfly, all green and gold, To me hath often flown, Here in my Blossoms to behold Wings lovely as his own. When grass is chill with rain or dew, Lies with her infant Lamb; I see The love they to each other make, Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued Her speech, until the stars of night Their journey had renewed: But in the branches of the Oak Two Ravens now began to croak One night, my Children! from the North There came a furious blast; At break of day I ventured forth, The storm had fallen upon the Oak, And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away; And, in one hospitable cleft, The little careless Broom was left To live for many a day." X. SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORLAND. SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour, When the weary fingers feel Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o'ershades the ground; Turn the swift wheel round and round! Now, beneath the starry sky, Couch the widely-scattered sheep; Ply the pleasant labour, ply! For the spindle, while they sleep, |