The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor,

And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.

And turning homeward, now they cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
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,
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child-

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime :
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair :

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
With the first word I had to spare

I said to her, "Beneath your cloak
What's that which on your arms you bear?"
She answered, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burthen, Sir,—a little singing-bird."

And thus continuing, she said,
“I had a son who many a day
Sailed on the seas; but he is dead:

In Denmark he was cast away: