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JANUARY.

The shutter closed, the lamp alight, The faggot chopt and blazing brightThe shepherd now, from labour free, Dances his children on his knee;

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While, underneath his master's seat, The tired dog lies in slumbers sweet, Starting and whimpering in his sleep, Chasing still the straying sheep.

The redcap, hanging overhead In cage of wire is perched a-bed; Slumbering in his painted feathers, Unconscious of the outdoor weathers : Even things without the cottage walls Meet comfort as the evening falls,As happy in the Winter's dearth As those around the blazing hearth. The ass (frost-driven from the moor, Where storms through naked bushes roar, And not a leaf or sprig of green On ground or quaking bush is seen, Save grey-veined ivy's hardy pride, Round old trees by the common side), Littered with straw, now dozes warm, Beneath his shed, from snow and storm. The swine are fed and in the stye; And fowls snug perched in hovel nigh, With head in feathers safe asleep, Where foxes cannot hope to creep; And geese are gabbling in their dreams Of littered corn and thawing streams; The sparrow, too, a daily guest, Is in the cottage eaves at rest: And robin small, and smaller wren, Are in their warm holes safe again From falling snows, that winnow by The hovels where they nightly lie, And ague winds, that shake the tree Where other birds are forced to be.

The housewife, busy night and day, Clears the supper-things away;

JANUARY.

The jumping cat starts from her seat;
And stretching up on weary feet
The dog wakes at the welcome tones
That call him up to pick the bones.

Supper removed, the mother sits
And tells her tales by starts and fits.
Not willing to lose time or toil,
She knits or sews, and talks the while
Something, that may be warnings found
To the young listeners gaping round-
Of boys who in her early day
Strolled to the meadow-lake to play,
Where willows, o'er the bank inclined,
Sheltered the water from the wind,
And left it scarcely crizzled o'er—
When one sank in, to rise no more!
And how, upon a market-night,
When not a star bestowed its light,
A farmer's shepherd, o'er his glass,
Forgot that he had woods to pass :
And having sold his master's sheep,
Was overta'en by darkness deep.
How, coming with his startled horse
To where two roads a hollow cross;
Where, lone guide when a stranger strays,
A white post points four different ways,
Beside the wood-ride's lonely gate
A murdering robber lay in wait.

The frightened horse, with broken rein.
Stood at the stable-door again;

But none came home to fill his rack,

Or take the saddle from his back:

The saddle-it was all he bore-
The man was seen alive no more!
In her young days, beside the wood,
The gibbet in its terror stood :
Though now decayed, 'tis not forgot,
But dreaded as a haunted spot.

Thus dame the winter-night regales With Wonder's never-ceasing tales; While in a corner, ill at ease,

Or crushing 'tween their father's knees,
The children-silent all the while-
And e'en repressed the laugh or smile—
Quake with the ague chills of fear,
And tremble though they love to hear;
Starting, while they the tales recall,
At their own shadows on the wall:
Till the old clock, that strikes unseen
Behind the picture-pasted screen
Where Eve and Adam still agree
To rob Life's fatal apple-tree,
Counts over bed-time's hour of rest,
And bids each be Sleep's fearful guest.
She then her half-told tales will leave

To finish on to-morrow's eve-
The children steal away to bed,
And up the ladder softly tread ;
Scarce daring from their fearful joys-
To look behind or make a noise;
Nor speak a word! but still as sleep
They secret to their pillows creep,
And whisper o'er, in terror's way,
The prayers they dare no louder say;

CHANGE OF WEATHERS.

Then hide their heads beneath the clothes,
And try in vain to seek repose :
While yet, to Fancy's sleepless eye,
Witches on sheep-trays gallop by,
And fairies, like a rising spark,

Swarm twittering round them in the dark;
Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares,
And drops upon them unawares.

A

CHANGE OF WEATHERS.

ND were it for thy profit, to obtain

All Sunshine? No vicissitude of Rain?

Thinkst thou, that thy laborious Plough requires

Not Winter frosts, as well as Summer fires?

There must be both. Sometimes these hearts of ours
Must have the sweet, the seasonable showers

Of teares; sometimes the Frost of chill despaire
Makes our desired Sunshine seem more faire :
Weathers that most oppose to Flesh and Blood,
Are such as help to make our Harvest good :
We may not choose, great God; it is Thy Task :
We know not what to have; nor how to ask.

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