ALICE FELL. THE post-boy drove with fierce career, A moan, a lamentable sound. As if the wind blew many ways I heard the sound, and more and more: It seem'd to follow with the chaise, At length I to the boy call'd out, The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast Said I, alighting on the ground, "My cloak!" the word was last and first, As if her very heart would burst; And down from off the chaise she leapt. "What ails you, child ?" she sobb'd, "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled. 'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke; "And whither are you going, child, She sate like one past all relief; "My child, in Durham do you dwell ?" She check'd herself in her distress, And I to Durham, Sir, belong." The chaise drove on; our journey's end Up to the tavern door we post; "And let it be of duffil gray, LUCY GRAY; OR SOLITUDE. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray "To-night will be a stormy night- "That, father! will I gladly do; The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook Not blither is the mountain roe: The storm came on before its time: The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight At day-break on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, And, turning homeward, now they cried, Then downward from the steep hill's edge And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall: And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; They followed from the snowy bank -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind, WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be ?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, "And where are they? I pray you tell." And two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell, This did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door And they are side by side, My stockings there I often knit, And often after sunset, Sir, The first that died was little Jane; Till God released her of her pain; So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, And when the ground was white with snow, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in Heaven ?" The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS; SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, One morn we strolled on our dry walk, As we are wont to do. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; |