IV. CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild; Than when both young and old sit gathered round Even so this happy creature of herself Is all sufficient: solitude to her Is blithe society, who fills the air With gladness and involuntary songs. Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched; Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow flowers; The many-coloured images impressed V. ADDRESS TO A CHILD, DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. BY A FEMALE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR. WHAT way does the wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow, Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height, As, if you look up, you plainly may see; He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook, And rings a sharp larum ;-but if you should look, Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place? VII. 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; '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 faggot-band; He plied his work;- and Lucy took Not blyther 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 And thence they saw the bridge of wood And, turning homeward, now they cried, Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed: They followed from the snowy bank -Yet some maintain that to this day 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. VIII. ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY. 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 seemed to follow with the chaise, At length I to the boy called out; The boy then smacked his whip, and fast Said I, alighting on the ground, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak!" the word was last and first, As if her very heart would burst; "What ails you, child?" She sobbed, "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?" 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 grey, I met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old, she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, 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 church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. |