Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and choose your time
The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits between the heap
So like an infant's grave in size,

And that same pond of which I spoke,
A woman in a scarlet cloak,

And to herself she cries,
"Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!"

At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes;
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows;

And there, beside the Thorn, she sits
When the blue daylight's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,

And to herself she cries,

"Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!''

Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow,
Thus to the dreary mountain-top
Does this poor woman go?

And why sits she beside the Thorn
When the blue daylight's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,

And wherefore does she cry?—
Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?

I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows:
But would you gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;

The hillock like an infant's grave,
The pond-and Thorn, so old and gray;
Pass by her door-'tis seldom shut-
And if you see her in her hut,
Then to the spot away!-

I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there.

BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

SOUTHEY.

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green
His little grand-child Whilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round, That he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy
Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for
There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out;
For many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,
Young Peterkin, he cries,
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;

Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for.

It was the English, Kaspar cried;
That put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.

But every body said, quoth he,
That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by,

They burn'd his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,
And new-born infant died.

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene.
Why 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine.

Nay-nay-my little girl, quoth he,
It was a famous victory.

And every body praised the duke,
Who such a fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why that I cannot tell, said he,
But 'twas a famous victory.

LINES

WITH THE AUTUMNAL CROCUS.

MARY HOWITT.

THY bower, with vine unshaded,
Stands desolate and lone;
The flowers of spring have faded,
The summer birds are flown.
Thy home-whose claims are stronger

Than time can e'er efface ;

Thy garden-thine no longer

Have lost each look of grace;

For the stranger's foot has gone there, and left a ruined place.

The past came o'er my spirit-
Thy kindness and thy faith;
And must thou grief inherit,

And life's undreamed-of scathe?
Is it thou-the gentlest, fairest,-
Like men must nerve thy heart,
And teach him how thou darest

Meet fortune's keenest dart;

Then look on all thou lov'd from youth, and patiently depart!

'Twas so in vain I sought thee

Within my garden-bower;

And from the fields I brought thee,

Pale Autumn's faithful flower.