We talked of change, of winter gone,

Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray, Of birds that build their nests and sing, And "all since Mother went away!"

To her these tales they will repeat,

To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

But, see, the evening star comes forth!
To bed the children must depart :
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

'Tis gone—and in a merry fit They run upstairs in gamesome race : I, too, infected by their mood,—

I could have joined the wanton chase.

Five minutes past-and O, the change!
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.

By a "female friend" of Wordsworth.

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.

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

Half breathless 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
Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank ;

And farther there were 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.

Wordsworth.

M

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 dwell,

And two are gone to sea.