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 came, you know, with fire and smoke
And hither did it bend its way.

This pond'rous 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 fleece of 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,

And thus to keep herself awake

Did gently interpose.

"" My thanks for your discourse are due ;
That it is true, and more than true,
I know and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond, by which we hold
Our being, be we 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

Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favor'd plant!

The Spring for me a garland weaves
Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That You might look on 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 renew'd.

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 feed and murmur there.

One night the Wind came from the North

And blew a furious blast,

At break of day I ventur'd forth

And near the Cliff I pass'd.

The storm had fall'n upon the Oak

And struck him with a mighty stroke,

And whirl'd and whirl'd him far away;

And in one hospitable Cleft

The little careless Broom was left

To live for many a day.

LUCY GRAY.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the Wild,

I chanc'd to see at break of day

The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wild Moor,

The sweetest Thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.