If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woolen
  chain;
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst
  gain!

For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need’st
  not fear;
The rain and storm are things that scarcely can
  come here.

Rest little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away;
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned
  by none,
And thy mother from thy side forevermore was
  gone.

[Illustration]

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee
  home! 
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam? 
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee
  yearn
Upon the mountain tops no kinder could have
  been.

Thou knowest that twice a day I brought thee in
  this can
Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever
  ran;
And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with
  dew,
I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and
  new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they
  are now;
Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart, like a pony in the
  plough;

My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is
  cold
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy
  fold.

[Illustration]

It will not, will not rest! poor creature, can it be
That ’tis thy mother’s heart which is working so in
  thee? 
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,
And dreams of things which thou canst neither see
  nor hear.

Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and
  fair! 
I’ve heard of fearful winds and darkness that come
  there: 

The little brooks that seem all pastime and at play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

Here thou need’st not dread the raven in the sky;
Night and day thou art safe,—­our cottage is hard
  by. 
Why bleat so after me? why pull so at thy chain? 
Sleep—­and at break of day I will come to thee
  again.

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy
  feet,
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,
That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was
  mine.

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song;
Nay, said I, more than half to the damsel must
  belong;
For she looked with such a look, and she spake
  with such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.

[Illustration:  Father William and the Young Man.]

FATHER WILLIAM AND THE YOUNG MAN.

You are old, Father William, the young man cries,
  The few locks which are left you are gray: 
You appear, Father William, a healthy old man;
  Now tell me the reason, I pray.