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Come, now we'll to bed ! and when we are there
in ; May drive at the windows,—we'll laugh at his
din : Let him seek his own home, wherever it be ; Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.
By a female friend of Wordsworth.
SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
She was a Phantom of delight
A countenance in which did meet
And now I see with eye serene
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight
appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud-it has sung for
three years ; Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has
heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment: what ails her ?
She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury
glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheap
Green pastures she views in the midst of the
dale, Down which she so often has tripped with her
pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but
they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not
rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes !
The post-boy drove with fierce career,
A moan, a lamentable sound.
As if the wind blew many ways,
I heard the sound,—and more and more ; It seemed to follow with the chaise,
And still I heard it as before.
At length I to the boy called out ;
He stopped his horses at the word ; But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it, could be heard.
The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain ; And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade him halt again.
Said I, alighting on the ground,
“What can it be, this piteous moan ?” And there a little girl I found,
Sitting behind the chaise, alone.
“ My cloak!” no other word she spoke,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
And down from off her seat she leapt.
“ What ails you, child ?”—she sobbed, “Look
here!” I saw it in the wheel entangled, A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scarecrow dangled.
'Twas twisted between nave and spoke :
Her help she lent, and with good heed Together we released the cloak
A miserable rag indeed !
“ And whither are you going, child,
To-night along these lonesome ways ?” “To Durham,” answered she, half wild
“ Then come with me into the chaise."