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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,
And hitherward pursued its way:

This ponderous Block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,

'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
The little witless Shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!

Will perish in one hour.

From me this friendly warning take

The Broom began to doze,

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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,
Will reach both great and small;

And he is oft the wisest man,
Who is not wise at all.

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
In truth a favoured plant!

On me such bounty Summer pours,

That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,

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,
Beneath my shade, the mother Ewe

Lies with her infant Lamb; I see

The love they to each other make,
And the sweet joy, which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'

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
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling Bees
To rest, or murmur there.

One night, my Children! from the North

There came a furious blast;

At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the Cliff I passed.

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,
Runs with motion smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

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