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Up to the tavern door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old.

"And let it be of duffil grey,

As warm a cloak as man can sell !" Proud creature was she the next day. The little orphan, Alice Fell!



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.

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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, 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,

Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none !

-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.


A SIMPLE child

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;

And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be ?"

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."
"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"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,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit

I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

So in the churchyard she was laid;

And all the summer dry,

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
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven !"



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,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear

To think-and think-and think again;
With so much happiness to spare,

I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him,
In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race;
The morning sun shone bright and warm
"Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place;
And so is Liswyn farm.

My little boy, which like you more,"

I said, and took him by the arm

"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,

Or here at Liswyn farm?

And tell me, had you rather be,"

I said, and held him by the arm,

"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,

Or here at Liswyn farm ?"

In careless mood he looked at me,

While still I held him by the arm,

And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."

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'Now, little Edward, say why so;
My little Edward, tell me why?"-
"I cannot tell, I do not know."-
"Why, this is strange," said I.

"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;
And five times to the child I said,
"Why, Edward, tell me why ?"

His head he raised-there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock;
And thus to me he made reply:
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock,
And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart

For better lore would seldom yearn,

Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn.


THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked schoolboys, the highest not more

Than the height of a Counsellor's bag;

To the top of GREAT HOW* did it please them to climb;
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,

A man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay;
They built him and christened him all in one day,
An urchin both vigorous and hale;

And so without scruple they called him Ralph Jones.
Now Ralph is renowned for the length of his bones;
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,

And, in anger or merriment, out of the North

Coming on with a terrible pother,

From the peak of the crag blew the giant away.

And what did these schoolboys?-The very next day

They went and they built up another.

GREAT HOW is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.

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