And, turning homeward, now they cried, Then downward from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed: They followed from the snowy bank ; -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY. THE post-boy drove with fierce career, 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, At length I to the boy called out; The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 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 sobbed, "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; "And whither are you going, child, She sate like one past all relief; "My child, in Durham do you dwell?" And I to Durham, sir, belong." And then, as if the thought would choke The chaise drove on; our journey's end Up to the tavern-door we post; "And let it be of duffil grey, IX WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl: She had a rustic, woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair; "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, "And where are they? I pray you tell." Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, And there upon the ground I sit- And often after sunset, sir, The first that died was little Jane ; Till God released her of her pain ; So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." "How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" The little maiden did reply, "O master! we are seven. "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still X. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we strolled on our dry walk, Our quiet home all full in view, My thoughts on former pleasures ran; Our pleasant home, when spring began, A day it was when I could bear My boy was by my side, so slim The young lambs ran a pretty race; My little boy, which like you more," And tell me, had you rather be," "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm ?" In careless mood he looked at me, "Now, little Edward, say why so; "For, here are woods, and green-hills warm: There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea." At this, my boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; His head he raised-there was in sight, Then did the boy his tongue unlock; |