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Then downward from the steep hill's edge | "What ails you, child?" She sobbed, They track 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.

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 oft her seat she leapt.

"Look here!"

I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scarecrow dangled.

'Twas twisted between nave and spoke,
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the cloak;
A wretched, wretched rag mdeed!

"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.

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My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And, as we talked, I questioned him,
In very idleness.

"Now tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and took him by the arm,
"On Kilve's smooth shore, by the
Or here at Liswyn farm?"

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."

"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.

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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,
It caught his eye; he saw it plain—
Upon the housetop, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock;
And thus to me he made reply,
"At Kilve there was no weathercock,
And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part
Of what from thee I learn.

RURAL ARCHITECTURE.

THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheeked school-boys, the high

est not more

Than the height of a counsellor's bag, To the top of Great How were once tempted to climb;

Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on

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No other sheep was near, the lamb was all alone, [stone; And by a slender cord was tethered to a With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel, [evening meal. While to that mountain lamb she gave its

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,

Seemed to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.

the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.

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Towards the lamb she looked; and from that shady place [her face: I unobserved could see the workings of If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,

Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid might sing:

"What ails thee, young one? what? Why pull so at thy cord? {and board? Is it not well with thee? well both for bed Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be; [aileth thee? Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that

"What is it thou would'st seek? What is wanting to thy heart?

Thy limbs, are they not strong? And beau

tiful thou art:

This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers; [thy ears! And that green corn all day is rustling in

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain, [canst gain; This beech is standing by, its covert thou For rain and mountain storms? the like thou need'st not fear

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It will not, will not rest!-poor creature, can it be [ing so in thee? That 'tis thy mother's heart which is workThings that I know not of belike to thee are dear, [neither see nor hear. And dreams of things which thou canst Alas, the mountain tops that look so green and fair!

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I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there; [and all play, The little brooks that seem all pastime When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky; [is hard by. Night and day thou art safe,-our cottage Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? [thee again!" Sleep-and at break of day I will come to As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line, [of it was mine.

The rain and storm are things that scarcely That but half of it was hers, and one half can come here.

"Rest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day [far away, When my father found thee first in places Man; flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,

And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home.

A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam?

A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean [have been. Upon the mountain tops no kinder could

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; [damsel must belong, Nay," said I, "more than half to the For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, [my own." That I almost received her heart into

THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR,

DUNGEON-GHYLL-FORCE.

A PASTORAL.

THE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play

Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and

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