I'll follow you across the snow;

You travel heavily and slow:

In spite of all my weary pain,

I'll look upon your tents again.

-My fire is dead, and snowy white
The water which beside it stood;
The wolf has come to me to-night,

And he has stolen away my food.

For ever left alone am I,

Then wherefore should I fear to die?

My journey will be shortly run,

I shall not see another sun;

I cannot lift my limbs to know

If they have any life or no.
My poor forsaken child! if I

For once could have thee close to me,
With happy heart I then should die,
And my last thoughts would happy be.
I feel my body die away,

I shall not see another day.

3

LUCY GRAY.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the Wild,

I chanced to see at break of day

The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew ;

She dwelt on a wide Moor,

-The sweetest thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night You to the Town must go;

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your Mother through the snow."

"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

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.

3

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.

And now they homeward turned, and 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 was none.

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living Child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome Wild.