We plough the field; but He must yield In hope we plough, in hope we sow, So off! and now God speed the plough, NEALE. MY MOTHER. Who fed me from her gentle breast, My Mother. When sleep forsook my open eye, Who sat and watch'd my infant head, My Mother. When pain and sickness made me cry, My Mother. Who ran to help me when I fell, My Mother. Who taught my infant lips to pray, And can I ever cease to be My Mother. My Mother? O no! the thought I cannot bear; My Mother. When thou art feeble, old, and gray, My Mother. And when I see thee hang thy head, My Mother. ANONYMOUS. FATHER WILLIAM. "You are old, father William," the young man cried, "The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray?" "In the days of my youth," father William replied, "I remember'd that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last." "You are old, father William,” the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away: And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray?" "In the days of my youth," father William replied, "I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past." "You are old, father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hast'ning away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, I pray?" "I am cheerful, young man," father William replied, "Let the cause thy attention engage: In the days of my youth I remember'd my God, LUCY GRAY. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, SOUTHEY "To-night will be a stormy night- And take a lantern, child, to light “That, father! will I gladly do : The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook, He plied his work;-and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. They wept, and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet :" - When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Half breathless from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they cross'd: They followed from the snowy bank Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; That whistles in the wind. WORDSWORTH. WE ARE SEVEN. A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl: |