THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS ; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE 1 A PASTORAL THE valley rings with mirth and joy ; The magpie chatters with delight; Or through the glittering vapours dart Beneath a rock, upon the grass, On pipes of sycamore they play Their rusty hats they trim: And thus, as happy as the day, Those Shepherds wear the time away. Along the river's stony marge The sand-lark chants a joyous song; 1 Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall. A thousand lambs are on the rocks, That plaintive cry! which up the hill Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race.' -Away the shepherds flew ; They leapt, they ran, and when they came 66 Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries. James stopped with no good will: Said Walter then, "Your task is here, "Twill baffle you for half a year. "Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross; Come on, and tread where I shall tread." The other took him at his word, And followed as he led. It was a spot which you may see Into a chasm a mighty block Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock : The gulf is deep below; And, in a basin black and small, Receives a lofty waterfall. With staff in hand across the cleft And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained When list! he hears a piteous moan; And, looking down, espies A lamb, that in the pool is pent The lamb had slipped into the stream, His dam had seen him when he fell, Sent forth a cry forlorn, The lamb, still swimming round and round, Made answer to that plaintive sound. When he had learnt what thing it was, He drew it from the troubled pool, An unexpected sight! Into their arms the lamb they took, Whose life and limbs the flood had spared; Then up the steep ascent they hied, And placed him at his mother's side; And gently did the bard Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid, And bade them better mind their trade. TO H. C. SIX YEARS OLD O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought; The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And grief, uneasy lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly! O vain and causeless melancholy ! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, Or to be trailed along the soiling earth; A gem that glitters while it lives, And no forewarning gives; But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife THE LONGEST DAY ADDRESSED TO MY DAUGHTER, DORA LET us quit the leafy arbour, And the torrent murmuring by; Evening now unbinds the fetters Yet by some grave thoughts attended For the day that now is ended Dora! sport, as now thou sportest, Who would check the happy feeling Yet, at this impressive season, And, while shades to shades succeeding |