"You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied; "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, "And often after sunset, sir, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was little Jane; So in the church-yard she was laid; And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played '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." "But they are dead; those two are dead! VII. 1798. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS. I HAVE a boy of five years old; One morn we strolled on our dry walk, And held such intermitted talk My thoughts on former pleasures ran; A day it was when I could bear 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 My boy beside me tripped, so slim "Now, tell me, had you rather be," I said, and took him by the arm, "On Kilve's smooth shore, by the green sea 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; "For here are woods, hills smooth and warm; At this my boy hung down his head, He blushed with shame, nor made reply; And three times to the child I said, “Why, Edward, tell me why?” His head he raised-there was in sight, Then did the boy his tongue unlock; O dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn, Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn. VIII. LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play "To-night will be a stormy night— "That, father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster-clock has just struck two And yonder is the moon." At this the father raised his hook Not blither is the mountain roe: The storm came on before its time: |