The lamb had slipped into the stream, And safe without a bruise or wound

The cataract had borne him down
Into the gulf profound.

His Dam had seen him when he fell,
She saw him down the torrent borne :

And, while with all a mother's love

She from the lofty rocks above

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round,

Made answer to that plaintive sound.

When he had learnt what thing it was,
That sent this rueful cry; I ween,
The boy recovered heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferred their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid-
A Poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages' books,
By chance had thither strayed;
And there the helpless lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompassed round.

He drew it gently from the pool,

And brought it forth into the light :

The shepherds met him with his charge,

An unexpected sight!

Into their arms the lamb they took,

Said they, "He's neither maimed nor scarred."

Then up the steep ascent they hied,

And placed him at his mother's side;
And gently did the Bard

Those idle shepherd-boys upbraid,

And bade them better mind their trade.

"That, father, will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon—

The minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a fagot-band;
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb,

But never reached the town.

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.

They wept, and turning homeward, cried,
"In heaven we all shall meet!"--
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Half breathless 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
Those 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-