 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
“This is a bitter night for the young lambs,”
My father said, and shivering drew his chair
Close in to the warm hearth. “The biting air,
When I looked out but now, was thick with snow
Fast driven in furious gusts—and hark! that's hail
Clattering against the window.”
My father said, and shivering drew his chair
Close in to the warm hearth. “The biting air,
When I looked out but now, was thick with snow
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Clattering against the window.”
To the storm
Listening a moment, with a pitying thought
For houseless wanderers, to our dear fireside
We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense
Of comfort and security, that each
Reflected in the other's face, read plain
As in a page of some familiar book
Long learned by heart.
Listening a moment, with a pitying thought
For houseless wanderers, to our dear fireside
We turned with grateful hearts, and sweetest sense
Of comfort and security, that each
Reflected in the other's face, read plain
As in a page of some familiar book
Long learned by heart.
“Cary! what makes you sigh
And look so sad i' th' sudden?” asked my mother,
As, letting fall my pencil, I rose up,
And, stealing to my father's side, drew close
The little stool, my own peculiar seat,
And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up,
With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft
Childhood's reflective pause.
And look so sad i' th' sudden?” asked my mother,
As, letting fall my pencil, I rose up,
And, stealing to my father's side, drew close
The little stool, my own peculiar seat,
And, leaning on his knee, looked earnest up,
With that long deep-drawn breath, that ends so oft
Childhood's reflective pause.
“I'm thinking, mother,
Of what my father said about the lambs—
What will become of them this bitter night,
Poor little pretty creatures? We looked at them
A long, long while, on our way home to-day,
While with their mothers they were folded up
By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand,
So very weak they were, so very young!
Don't you remember, father! you said then
A cold hard night would kill them.”
Of what my father said about the lambs—
What will become of them this bitter night,
Poor little pretty creatures? We looked at them
A long, long while, on our way home to-day,
While with their mothers they were folded up
By the old shepherd. Some could hardly stand,
So very weak they were, so very young!
Don't you remember, father! you said then
A cold hard night would kill them.”
“Did I, child?
Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd
Will take good heed to them—and—Little girl!
Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God
‘Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb’? So these,
Helpless and tender as they are, His eye
Still watcheth, and His guardian care protects.”
“Oh! but I wish”—unuttered was the wish;
For the door opened, and a burly form,
Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap,
And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow,
Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in
With little form by Joe, within the room
Advanced a step or two, in country fashion,
Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di,
With hostile growling, from her master's feet;
But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment
Dropping her tail, she came contented back
To her warm station.
Well, this is cold enough. But then the shepherd
Will take good heed to them—and—Little girl!
Have you not heard, and read, and learnt, how God
‘Tempers the wind to the shorn lamb’? So these,
Helpless and tender as they are, His eye
Still watcheth, and His guardian care protects.”
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For the door opened, and a burly form,
Much like a walking bear, the hairy cap,
And shaggy wrapping coat, all white with snow,
Announced by baying house-dogs, and shown in
With little form by Joe, within the room
Advanced a step or two, in country fashion,
Scraping obeisance. Up sprung old Di,
With hostile growling, from her master's feet;
But sniffing round the stranger, in a moment
Dropping her tail, she came contented back
To her warm station.
“What's the matter, Farmer,
That you're abroad so late this blusterous night?”
My father, with a friendly greeting, asked;
“My little lassie, here, was just bewailing
For your young lambs—but they're all snug, I guess.”
That you're abroad so late this blusterous night?”
My father, with a friendly greeting, asked;
“My little lassie, here, was just bewailing
For your young lambs—but they're all snug, I guess.”
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |