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Ort I had heard of Lucy Gray :
And, when I crossed the wild,
The solitary child.
She dwelt on a wide moor,
Beside a human door!
The hare upon the green ;
Will never more be seen.
You to the town must go;
Your mother through the snow.”
'Tis scarcely afternoon
And yonder is the moon !"
And snapped a faggot-band ;
The lantern in her hand.
With many a wanton stroke
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.
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
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;
Upon the lonesome wild.
O’er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
37. THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN.
We are poor and lowly born;
With the poor we bide ;
Care and want beside.'
Was of lowly birth,
Were his friends on earth !
We are ignorant and young
Simple children all;
And of learning small.
Loved such as we;-
DELIGHTFUL visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flowers,
From birds among the bowers.
To pull the primrose gay,
And imitates thy lay.
Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fliest the vocal vale ;
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
39. ARIEL'S SONG.
WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I;
40. A FIELD FLOWER. ON FINDING ONE IN BLOOM ON CHRISTMAS DAY. THERE is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
And weathers every sky.
In gay but quick succession shine;
They flourish and decline.
While moons and stars their courses run,
Companion of the sun.
To sultry August spreads its charms,
And twines December's arms.
On moory mountains catch the gale:
The violet in the vale.
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Peeps round the fox's den.
It shares the sweet carnation's bed ;
In honour of the dead.
The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
Light o'er the skylark's nest,