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• What ails you. Child?" she sobb’d, “Look here!”
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather beaten Rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the Cloak;
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!

“ And whither are you going, Child, To night along these lonesome ways?" “ To Durham” answer'd 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.

“My Child, in Durham do you dwell?”
She check'd herself in her distress,
And said, “My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter'd Cloak,

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she'd lost her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the Tavern-door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the Host,
To buy a new Cloak for the old.

« And let it be of duffil grey,

As warm a cloak as man can sell !”

Proud Creature was she the next day, The little Orphan, Alice Fell!



There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods ;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ;
And all the air is fill'd with pleasant noise of waters.
All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops; on the moors
The Hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist; which, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then


I saw the Hare that rac'd about with joy;
I heard the woods, and distant waters, roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a Boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no farther go,
As high as we have mounted in delight

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