At this the Father raised his hook, He plied his work; The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb; The wretched parents all that night But there was neither sound nor sight 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: When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. Half breathless from the steep hill's edge 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 Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. VIII. WE ARE SEVEN. A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage Girl: She had a rustic, woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair; "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, Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell, Then did the little Maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid, "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. The first that died was little Jane ; Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. So in the church-yard she was laid; 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." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in Heaven?" "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" IX. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I HAVE a boy of five years old; One morn we strolled on our dry walk. My thoughts on former pleasures ran ; A day it was when I could bear |