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.

Half breathless from the steep hill's edge
They track'd 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 track'd them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.

They follow'd 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-

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;