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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 day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;

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

They wept-and turning homeward, cried,
In heaven we all shall meet!"

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-When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks 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 was 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.

IX.

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

WE walked along, while bright and red,
Uprose the morning sun;

And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,

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1799.

A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the streaming rills,

We travelled merrily, to pass

A day among the hills.

Our work," said I, "was well begun ; Then from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?"

A second time did Matthew stop,
And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn.
Of this the very brother.

"With rod and line I sued the sport

Which that sweet season gave,

And, to the church-yard come, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen,

The pride of all the vale;

And then she sang: she would have been

A very nightingale.

"Six feet in earth my Emma lay;

And yet I loved her more,

For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

“And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the church-yard yew,

A blooming girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew,

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A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white; To see a child so very fair,

It was a pure delight!

"No fountain from its rocky cave
E'er tripped with foot so free;
She seemed as happy as a wave
That dances on the sea.

"There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again,
And did not wish her mine."

Matthew is in his grave; yet now,
Methinks I see him stand

As at that moment, with his bough
Of wilding in his hand.

X.

THE FOUNTAIN.

A CONVERSATION.

WE talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true;

A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat;

And from the turf a fountain broke,

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And gurgled at our feet.

Now, Matthew!" said I, "let us match

This water's pleasant tune

With some old Border song, or catch

That suits a summer's noon;

"Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!'

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee:

1799.

No check, no stay, this streamlet fears How merrily it goes!

"Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows.

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"My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,

For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.

"Thus fares it still in our decay;
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.

"The blackbird amid leafy trees, The lark above the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,

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Are quiet when they will.

With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife: they see

A happy youth, and their old age

Is beautiful and free:

"But we are pressed by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

"If there be one who need bemoan,

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own! It is the man of mirth.

"My days, my friend, are almost gone, My life has been approved,

And many love me; but by none
Am I enough beloved."

"Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains;

I live and sing my idle songs

Upon these happy plains;

"And, Matthew, for thy children dead
I'll be a son to thee!"

At this he grasped my hand, and said,
Alas! that cannot be."

44

We rose up from the fountain-side,
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went;

And, ere we came to Leonard's Rock,
He sang those witty rhymes

About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.

XI.

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET.

WHERE art thou, my beloved son,

Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh, find me, prosperous or undone!
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest, and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despaired, have hoped, believed,
And be for evermore beguiled,
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!
I catch at them and then I miss;
Was ever darkness like to this?

He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred, I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold;
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said, they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.

Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power is in his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares!

1799.

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