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You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green :
Will never more be seen.
You to the town must go;
Your mother through the snow.” “That, father! will I gladly do ;
'Tis scarcely afternoon-
And yonder is the moon."
And snapped a faggot band ;
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe :
With many a wanton stroke
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 ;
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood,
That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.
And, turning homeward, now they cried,
“In heaven we all shall meet !”
The print of Lucy's feet.
They tracked the footrnarks small :
And by the long stone wall :
The marks were still the same;
And to the bridge they came.
The footmarks, one by one,
And further there were none !
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
Upon the lonesome wild.
And never looks behind ;
That whistles in the wind.
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER. - Goldsmith.
BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.—Gray. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, ,
Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, · Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield !
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour ;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted
vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear : Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered
muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,