From "January"

Supper removed, the mother sits,     And tells her tales by starts and fits.     Not willing to lose time or toil,     She knits or sews, and talks the while     Something, that may be warnings found     To the young listeners gaping round--     Of boys who in her early day     Strolled to the meadow-lake to play,     Where willows, oer the bank inclined     Sheltered the water from the wind,     And left it scarcely crizzled oer--     When one sank in, to rise no more!     And how, upon a market-night,     When not a star bestowed its light,     A farmer's shepherd, oer his glass,     Forgot that he had woods to pass:     And having sold his master's sheep,     Was overta'en by darkness deep.     How, coming with his startled horse,     To where two roads a hollow cross;     Where, lone guide when a stranger strays,     A white post points four different ways,     Beside the woodride's lonely gate     A murdering robber lay in wait.     The frightened horse, with broken rein,     Stood at the stable-door again;     But none came home to fill his rack,     Or take the saddle from his back;     The saddle--it was all he bore--     The man was seen alive no more!--     In her young days, beside the wood,     The gibbet in its terror stood:     Though now decayed, tis not forgot,     But dreaded as a haunted spot.--     She from her memory oft repeats     Witches' dread powers and fairy feats:     How one has oft been known to prance     In cowcribs, like a coach, to France,     And ride on sheep-trays from the fold     A race-horse speed to Burton-hold;     To join the midnight mystery's rout,     Where witches meet the yews about:     And how, when met with unawares,     They turn at once to cats or hares,     And race along with hellish flight,     Now here, now there, now out of sight!--     And how the other tiny things     Will leave their moonlight meadow-rings,     And, unperceived, through key-holes creep,     When all around have sunk to sleep,     To feast on what the cotter leaves,--     Mice are not reckoned greater thieves.     They take away, as well as eat,     And still the housewife's eye they cheat,     In spite of all the folks that swarm     In cottage small and larger farm;     They through each key-hole pop and pop,     Like wasps into a grocer's shop,     With all the things that they can win     From chance to put their plunder in;--     As shells of walnuts, split in two     By crows, who with the kernels flew;     Or acorn-cups, by stock-doves plucked,     Or egg-shells by a cuckoo sucked;     With broad leaves of the sycamore     They clothe their stolen dainties oer:     And when in cellar they regale,     Bring hazel-nuts to hold their ale;     With bung-holes bored by squirrels well,     To get the kernel from the shell;     Or maggots a way out to win,     When all is gone that grew within;     And be the key-holes eer so high,     Rush poles a ladder's help supply.     Where soft the climbers fearless tread,     On spindles made of spiders' thread.     And foul, or fair, or dark the night,     Their wild-fire lamps are burning bright:     For which full many a daring crime     Is acted in the summer-time;--     When glow-worm found in lanes remote     Is murdered for its shining coat,     And put in flowers, that nature weaves     With hollow shapes and silken leaves,     Such as the Canterbury bell,     Serving for lamp or lantern well;     Or, following with unwearied watch     The flight of one they cannot match,     As silence sliveth upon sleep,     Or thieves by dozing watch-dogs creep,     They steal from Jack-a-Lantern's tails     A light, whose guidance never fails     To aid them in the darkest night     And guide their plundering steps aright.     Rattling away in printless tracks,     Some, housed on beetles' glossy backs,     Go whisking on--and others hie     As fast as loaded moths can fly:     Some urge, the morning cock to shun,     The hardest gallop mice can run,     In chariots, lolling at their ease,     Made of whateer their fancies please;--     Things that in childhood's memory dwell--     Scooped crow-pot-stone, or cockle-shell,     With wheels at hand of mallow seeds,     Where childish sport was stringing beads;     And thus equipped, they softly pass     Like shadows on the summer-grass,     And glide away in troops together     Just as the Spring-wind drives a feather.     As light as happy dreams they creep,     Nor break the feeblest link of sleep:     A midge, if in their road a-bed,     Feels not the wheels run oer his head,     But sleeps till sunrise calls him up,     Unconscious of the passing troop,--     Thus dame the winter-night regales     With wonder's never-ceasing tales;     While in a corner, ill at ease,     Or crushing tween their father's knees,     The children--silent all the while--     And een repressed the laugh or smile--     Quake with the ague chills of fear,     And tremble though they love to hear;     Starting, while they the tales recall,     At their own shadows on the wall:     Till the old clock, that strikes unseen     Behind the picture-pasted screen     Where Eve and Adam still agree     To rob Life's fatal apple-tree,     Counts over bed-time's hour of rest,     And bids each be sleep's fearful guest.     She then her half-told tales will leave     To finish on to-morrow's eve;--     The children steal away to bed,     And up the ladder softly tread;     Scarce daring--from their fearful joys--     To look behind or make a noise;     Nor speak a word! but still as sleep     They secret to their pillows creep,     And whisper oer, in terror's way,     The prayers they dare no louder say;     Then hide their heads beneath the clothes,     And try in vain to seek repose:     While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye,     Witches on sheep-trays gallop by,     And fairies, like a rising spark,     Swarm twittering round them in the dark;     Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares,     And drops upon them unawares.