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God has given a kindlier power
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp 'larum ;-but, if you should look,
There is nothing to see but a cushion of snow
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
Sometimes he 'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Nothing but silence and empty space ;
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves !
As soon as 'tis daylight tomorrow, with me To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes ;
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see And feats of cunning ; and the pretty round That he has been there, and made a great rout, Of trespasses, affected to provoke
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about ; Mock-chastisement and partnership in play. Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,
twig Not less if unattended and alone
That looked up at the sky so proud and big Than when both young and old sit gathered round
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws With gladness and involuntary songs.
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Drive them down, like men in a battle : Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched; -But let him range round; he does us no harm, Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir
We build up the fire, we ’re snug and warm ; Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers, Untouched by his breath see the candle shines bright, Or from before it chasing wantonly
And burns with a clear and steady light; The many-coloured images imprest
Books have we to read, - but that half-stifled knell, Upon the bosom of a placid lake.
Alas ! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.