Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a faggot sparkles on the hearth,

Not less if unattended and alone

Than when both young and old sit gathered round And take delight in its activity;

Even so this happy Creature of herself

Is all-sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society, who fills the air
With gladness and involuntary songs.

Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched ;
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir

Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-coloured images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

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!

Written at Goslar, in Germany, 1798-99.

1811.

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.”

66

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 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.

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
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;

And further 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.

* And turning homeward, now they cried.-Edit. 1815.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.*

ALICE FELL;†

OR, POVERTY.

THE post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as we hurried on, my ear

Was smitten with a startling 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 way in which the incident is treated, and the spiritualising of the character, might furnish hints for contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavoured to throw over common life, with Crabbe's matter of fact style of handling subjects of the same kind."-W. W.

This poem was written at Grasmere, February, 1802. The incident occurred with a Mr. Graham, brother of the Poet, who wrote "The Sabbath. The poem has been omitted from some editions of Mr. Wordsworth's works, but he restored it to the latest editions at the request of some friends, and particularly his son-in-law, Mr. Edward Quillinan.

When suddenly I seemed to hear

A moan, a lamentable sound.-Edit. 1815.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
But, hearing soon upon the blast
The cry, I bade him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan? And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

My cloak!" no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her innocent heart would break;
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 scare-crow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed 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."

*Said I, alighting on the ground,

What can it be this piteous moan?-Edit. 1815.
↑ "Twas twisted between nave and spoke,
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the cloak,

A wretched, wretched rag indeed.-Edit. 1815.