The wretched parents all that night But there was neither sound nor sight At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; 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 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; 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 O'er rough and smooth she trips along And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we strolled on our dry walk, And held such intermitted talk n; My thoughts on former pleasures ran A day it was when I could bear The green earth echoed to the feet Of lambs that bounded through the glade, From shade to sunshine, and as fleet From sunshine back to shade. Birds warbled round me-every trace "Kilve," said I, “. And so is Liswyn farm." My Boy was by my side, so slim "Now tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea, Or here at Liswyn farm ?" In careless mood he looked at me, "Now, little Edward, say why so; My little Edward, tell me why.' “I cannot tell, I do not know." "Why, this is strange," said I ; "For, here are woods, and green hills warm : There surely must some reason be Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm For Kilve by the green sea." At this, my Boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And five times to the child I said, 'Why, Edward, tell me why?" His head he raised-there was in sight, Then did the Boy his tongue unlock; O dearest, dearest Boy! my heart ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY. THE post-boy drove with fierce career, For threatening clouds the moon had drowned; When, as we hurried on, my ear Was smitten with a startling sound. As if the wind blew many ways, I heard the sound,—and more and more; And still I heard it as before. At length I to the boy called out; The boy then smacked his whip, and fast The cry, I bade him halt again. Forthwith alighting on the ground, "Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?" And there a little Girl I found, Sitting behind the chaise, alone. "My cloak !" no other word she spake, As if her innocent heart would break; "What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er From any garden scare-crow dangled. There, twisted between nave and spoke, "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." Insensible to all relief Sat the poor girl, and forth did send Sob after sob, as if her grief Could never, never have an end. |