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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 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 !”
When in the snow the mother spied

The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge

They tracked the footrnarks 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

The 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.


BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school;
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew..

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning's face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned :
Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault;
The village all declared how much he knew ;
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ;
And e'en the story ran—that he could gauge ;
In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,
For e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ;
While words of learned length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics, ranged around ;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.


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.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

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 ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

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,

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