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 downwards 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 !
-Yet some maintain that to this da
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. 1799.

X.

WE ARE SEVEN.

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 church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard 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
be."

may

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

If two are in the church-yard 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,
And sing a song to them.
And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was sister Jane:
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid ;
And, when the grass was 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?"

Quick was the little Maid's 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!" 1798.

*

XI.

THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS;

OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.*
A PASTORAL.

THE.Valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never never ending song,
To welcome in the May.
The magpie chatters with delight:
The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest:
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food:
Or through the glittering vapours
In very wantonness of heart.
Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind-or done.

dart

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymu:
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those shepherds wear the time away.

Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall.