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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 snapp'd a fagot 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 wander'd up and down:

And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reach'd 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 overlook'd the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
O blessed vision! happy child !

Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

Oh! too industrious folly!

Oh! vain and causeless melancholy !

Nature will either end thee quite ;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Not framed to undergo unkindly shocks;

Or to be trail'd along the soiling earth;

A gem that glitters while it lives ;

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.

LINES,

Composed at Grasmere, during a walk, one evening after a stormy day, the author having just read in a newspaper that the dissolution of Mr. Fox was hourly expected.

LOUD is the Vale! the voice is up,

With which she speaks when storms are gone,
A mighty unison of streams!

Of all her voices, one!

Alone she cuts, and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain.
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
So sweetly to reposing bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from a cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy. far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;
I listen'd till I had my fill:
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

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THE PET LAMB.

A Pastoral.

THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: it said, ' Drink, pretty creature, drink!'

And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its side.

No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;

With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took, Seem'd to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.

'Drink, pretty creature, drink,' she said in such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watch'd them with delight; they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can, the maiden turn'd away;
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Towards the lamb she look'd; and from that shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face;
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?

Is it not well with thee? Well both for bed and board? Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Rest, little young one, rest; what is't that aileth thee?

'What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?

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;

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And long unspeaking sorrow :
Wharf shall be, to pitying hearts,
A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a lover the lady wept,
A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day
Which was to be to-morrow :
Her hope was a farther-looking hope,
And hers is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,
And her first words were, 'Let there be
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately priory !'

The stately priory was rear'd,
And Wharf, as he moved along,
To matins join'd a mournful voice,
Nor fail'd at evensong.

And the lady pray'd in heaviness

That look'd not for relief:

And slowly did her succour come,

And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never a sorrow of heart

That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn and ask

Of Him to be our friend!

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