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Tuys fins tvojimny star come io
1. del fons filleiten mms depa.. I had to be done so fast vinesthey fees,
A melna se sut the heart :
a pone and in a merry fit
P upstairs in gamesome race: 19 Infecteg by their mood, — 1 ou have joined the wanton chase.
past-and O, the change ! upon their beds they lie; sy limbs in perfect rest, dorted the sparkling eye.
friend" of TV orasmantha
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray :
And, when I crossed the wild,
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 ;
Will never more be seen.
“To-night will be a stormy night
You to the town must go ;
Your mother through the snow.”
“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,
And snapped a faggot band;
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke
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;
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 :
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. 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 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.