It was a new-born thing: the rain
Poured down all night; its bed

Was drenched and cold. Morn came again,
But the poor lamb was dead.

Yet the poor mother's fond distress
Its every art had tried,

To shield, with sleepless tenderness,

The weak one at her side.

Round it, all night, she gathered warm

Her woolly limbs-her head
Close-curved, across its feeble form ;

Day dawned, and it was dead.

THE PET LAMB.

She saw it dead; she felt, she knew
It had no strength, no breath,

Yet how could she conceive-poor ewe!
The mystery of death!

It lay before her, stiff and cold,

Yet fondly she essayed

To cherish it in love's warm fold:
Then restless trial made,

Moving, with still reverted face,

And low, complaining bleat,
To entice from their damp resting-place
Those little, stiffening feet.

All would not do, when all was tried:

Love's last fond lure was vain :

So quietly by its dead side

She laid her down again.

ANONYMOUS.

THE PET LAMB.

JHE dew was falling fast; the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice; it said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And looking o'er the hedge, before me, I espied

A snow-white mountain-lamb, with a maiden at its side.

Nor sheep, nor kine were near; the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone;

105

106

THE PET LAMB.

With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain-lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,

Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook. "Drink, pretty creature, drink!" she said, in such a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own.

"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.

"Here thou need'st not dréad the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—our cottage is hard by.
Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain?
Sleep-and at break of day I will come to thee again!

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,
Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony 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!"

WORDSWORTH.