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;
He stopped his horses at the word;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it could be heard.

The Boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
And soon I heard upon the blast

The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,
"What can it be, this piteous moan?"
And there a little Girl I found,

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
Together we released the Cloak;
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!

"And whither are you going, Child, To night along these lonesome ways?" "To Durham" answered she half wild“Then come with me into the chaise.”

She sate like one past all relief;

Sob after sob she forth did send

In wretchedness, as if her grief

Could never, never, have an end.

"My Child, in Durham do you dwell?"
She check'd herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered Cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,

As if she'd lost her only friend

She wept, nor would be pacified.

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!