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That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers :

This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.

I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild-
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy child !

Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallow'd mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;

For thee a funeral bell shall ring,

And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.

"MY HEART LEAPS UP."

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky :

So was it when my life began ;
So is it now I am a man ;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die !

The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

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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.

Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reached the town.

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 daybreak on a hill they stood

That overlook'd the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood,

A furlong from the 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 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 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.

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