There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

"And whither are you going, child,
To-night, along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham," answered she, half wild-
66 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.

"My child, in Durham do dwell?
you
She checked herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, Sir, belong."
Again, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak !
The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she had lost her only friend
She wept, r.or 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 gray,
As warm a cloak as man can sell !"
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell!
1801.

IX.

LUCY GRAY;
OR, SOLITUDE.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
-The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

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.

O'er rough and smooth shu trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
1799.

X.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we:
And two of us at Conway dweil,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we:
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then?" said L,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
O Master! we are seven.'

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
1798.

X

THE IDLE SHEPHERD BOYS;

OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL FORCE.

A PASTORAL.

THE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play
A never, never ending song,
To welcome in the May.

The magpie chatters with delight;

The mountain raven's youngling brood
Have left the mother and the nest;
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food;

Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short and, for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall.

Or through the glittering vapors dart
In very wantonness of heart.

Beneath a rock upon the grass,
Two boys are sitting in the sun;
Their work, if any work they have,
Is out of mind-or done.

On pipes of sycamore they play
The fragments of a Christmas hymn
Or with that plant which in our dale
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail,
Their rusty hats they trim:
And thus, as happy as the day,
Those shepherds wear the time away.
Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chants a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the wood,
And carols loud and strong.
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
All newly born! both earth and sky
Keep jubilee, and more than all,
Those boys with their green coronal;
They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, "Down to the stump of yon old yew We'll for our whistles run a race.'

-Away the shepherds flew ;
They leapt they ran-and when they came
Right opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll,
Seeing that he should loose the prize,
"Stop!" to his comrade Walter cries-
James stopped with no good will:
Said Walter then, exulting; "Here
You'll find a task for half a year.

Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross-
Come on, and tread where I shall tread."
The other took him at his word,
And followed as he led.

It was a spot which you may see
If ever you to Langdale go;

Into a chasm a mighty block

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock:
The gulf is deep below;

And, in a basin black and small,
Receives a lofty waterfall.

With staff in hand across the cleft

The challenger pursued his march;

And now, all hands and feet, hath gained
The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan-
Again !-his heart within him dies-
His pulse is stopped. his breath is lost,

He totters, pallid as a ghost,
And, looking down, espies
A lamb, that in the pool is pent
Within that black and frightful rent.

The lamb had slipped into the stream,
And safe wthout a bruise or wound
The cataract had borne him down

Into the gulf profound.

His dam had seen him when he fell,
She saw him down the torrent borne;
And, while with all a mother's love
She from the lofty rocks above
Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The lamb, still swimming round and round
Made answer to that plaintive sound

When he had learnt what thing it was,
That sent this rueful cry; I ween
The Boy recovered heart, and told
The sight which he had seen.
Both gladly now deferred their task;
Nor was there wanting other aid—
A Poet, one who loves the brooks
Far better than the sages' books,
By chance had thither strayed;
And there the helpless lamb he found
By those huge rocks encompassed round,
He drew it from the troubled pool,
And brought it forth into the light:
The Shepherds met him with his charge,
An unexpected sight!

Into their arms the lamb they took,
Whose life and limbs the flood had spared
Then up the steep ascent they hied,
And placed him at his mother's side;
And gently did the Bard

Those idle Shepherd-boys upbraid,
And bade them better mind their trade.
1800.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear
Some fond regrets to entertain;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

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-and each trace
Of inward sadness had its charm;
Kilve, thought I, was a favored place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My boy beside me tripped, so slirn
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 hini by the arm,

A Man on the peak of the crag.

They built him of stones gathered up as they lay:

They built him and christened him all in one day,

An urchin both vigorous and hale;

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;

66

"For, here are woods, hills smooth and

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 three times to the child 1 said,
"Why, Edward, tell me why?"

His head he raised-there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,
And eased his mind with this reply:
"At Kilve there was no weather-cock;
And that's the reason why."

Ralph Jones.

Now Ralph is renowned for the length of

his bones;

Thy limbs are they not strong? and beautiful thou art :

This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;

And that green corn all day is rustling in thy ears!

If, the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,

This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;

For rain and mountain-storms! the like thou need'st not fear,

The rain and storm are things that scarcely can come here,

Rest, little young One, rest; thou hast forgot the day

When my father found thee first in places

far away;

Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert owned by none,

And thy mother from thy side forevermore was gone

He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought

thee home:

And twice in the day, when the ground is wet with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is and new.

Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now,

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough;

My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold

Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shali be thy fold.

It will not, will not rest!-Poor creature, can it be

That 'tis thy mother's heart which is work ing so in thee?