That oaten pipe of hers is mute, This flute, made of a hemlock stalk, I, too, have passed her on the hills Farewell! and when thy days are told, For thee a funeral bell shall ring, And all the congregation sing "MY HEART LEAPS UP." My heart leaps up when I behold So was it when my life began ; The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; -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 "To-night will be a stormy night- And take a lantern, child, to light "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 He plied his work;-and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe; Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; 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: They tracked them on, nor ever lost; They followed from the snowy bank 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 |