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Ort 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.

LUCY GRAY.

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 !

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-Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

WORDSWORTH.

37. THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN.

We are poor and lowly born;

With the poor we bide ;
Labour is our heritage,

Care and want beside.'
What of this ? our blessed Lord

Was of lowly birth,
And poor, toiling fishermen

Were his friends on earth !

We are ignorant and young

Simple children all;
Gifted with but humble powers,

And of learning small.
What of this ? our blessed Lord

Loved such as we;-
How he blessed the little ones
Sitting on his knee !

MARY HOWITT,

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DELIGHTFUL visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.
The schoolboy, wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest the vocal vale ;
An annual guest in other lands,

Another Spring to hail.

Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No Winter in thy year!

LOGAN.

39. ARIEL'S SONG.

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie :
There I couch, when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly,
After summer, merrily :
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

SHAKESPEARE.

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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,
That welcomes every changing hour,

And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field

In gay but quick succession shine;
Race after race their honours yield,

They flourish and decline.
But this small flower, to Nature dear,

While moons and stars their courses run,
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,

Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,

To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale October on its way,

And twines December's arms.
The purple heath, and golden broom,

On moory mountains catch the gale:
O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume,

The violet in the vale.
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,

Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,

Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round

It shares the sweet carnation's bed ;
And blooms on consecrated ground,

In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,

The wild bee murmurs on its breast,
The blue fly bends its pensile stem

Light o'er the skylark's nest,

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