They follow'd from the fnowy bank
The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,

And further there were none.

Yet fome maintain that to this day
She is a living child,

That you may fee fweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And fings a folitary song

That whistles in the wind.

The two APRIL MORNINGS.

WE walk'd along, while bright and red
Uprofe the morning fun,

And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and faid, "The will of God be done!"

A village Schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blith a man as you could fee
On a fpring holiday.

And on that morning, through the gråfs,
And by the steaming rills,
We travell❜d merrily to pass
A day among the hills.

"Our work," faid I, " was well begun; Then, from thy breaft what thought, Beneath fo beautiful a fun,

So fad a figh has brought?

A fecond time did Matthew ftop,
And fixing ftill his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top

To me he made reply.

Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind.

A day like this which I have left

Full thirty years behind.

B

And on that flope of fpringing corn
The felf-fame crimson hue

Fell from the sky that April morn,
The fame which now I view !

With rod and line my filent sport
I plied by Derwent's wave,
And, coming to the church, ftopp'd short
Befide my daughter's grave.

Nine fummers had fhe fcarcely feen

The pride of all the vale;

And then she fang!-fhe would have been A very nightingale.

Six feet in earth my Emma lay,

And yet I lov'd her more,
For fo it feem'd, than till that day
I e'er had lov'd before.

And turning from her grave, I met
Befide the church-yard Yew

A blooming Girl, whofe hair was wet
With points of morning dew.

A basket on her head fhe bare,
Her brow was smooth and white,,
To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripp'd with foot fo free,
She feem'd as happy as a wave
That dances on the fea.

There came from me a figh of pain
Which I could ill confine;

I lock'd at her and look'd again;
-And did not wish her mine.

Matthew is in his grave, yet now
Methinks I fee him ftand,

As at that moment, with his bough.
Of wilding in his hand.

B. 2

The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYs,

OR

DUNGEON-GILL FORCE,*

A PASTORAL.

I.

The valley rings with mirth and joy,
Among the hills the Echoes play
A never, never ending fong
To welcome in the May.

The magpie chatters with delight;
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the neft,
And they go rambling eaft and weft
In fearch of their own food,
Or thro' the glittʼring vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.

*Gill in the dialect of Cumberland and Weftmoreland is a fhort and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word univerfally employed in these dialects for waterfall.