"What ails thee Young-one,-What? Why pull so at thy cord?

Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board?

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be,

Rest little Young-one, rest! What is't that aileth thee?

"What is it thou would'st seek? What is 'wanting to thy heart?

Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:

This grass is tender grass, these flowers they have no peers,

And that green corn all day is rustling in thy

ears.

"If the Sun is shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;

For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need'st not fear,

The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here..

"Rest, little Young-one, rest! Thou hast forgot the day

When my father found thee first in places far

away:

Many flocks are on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none,

And thy Mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought

thee home,

A blessed day for thee! then whither would'st thou roam?

A faithful nurse thou hast, the dam that did

thee yean

Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thee in this Can

Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever

ran;

And twice in the day when the ground is wet with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a poney in the plough,

My playmate thou shalt be, and when the wind is cold

Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"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 cans't 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,

He will not come to thee, our Cottage is hard by;

Night and day thou art safe as living thing can be,

Be happy then and rest, what is't that aileth thee?"

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

This Song to myself did I oftentimes repeat, And it seem'd as I retrac'd 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 look'd with such a look and she spake with such a tone,

That I almost receiv'd her heart into my own."

Written in

GERMANY,

On one of the coldest Days of the Century.

I must apprize the Reader that the

Stoves in North Germany generally have the Impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being Part of the Brunswick Arms.

A FIG for your languages, German and Norse, Let me have the Song of the Kettle,

And the Tongs and the Poker, instead of that Horse

That gallops away with such fury and force On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff,
But her pulses beat slower and slower,
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood
low enough,

And now it is four degrees lower.