"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. 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, A furlong from their door. And, turning homeward, now they 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, VOL. I. -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. VIII. ALICE FELL; Or Poverty. THE Post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When suddenly I seemed to hear 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, And still I heard it as before. At length I to the Boy called out; The Boy then smacked his whip, and fast The voice, and bade him halt again. Said I, alighting on the ground, Sitting behind the Chaise, alone. "My Cloak!" the word was last and first, And loud and bitterly she wept, As if her very heart would burst; And down from off her seat she leapt. "What ails you, Child?" she sobb'd, "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; Her help she lent, and with good heed |