LUCY GRAY; OR SOLITUDE.

FT I had heard of Lucy Gray:

OFTM
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 fagot-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.

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.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER.

HAT is good for a bootless bene?'

'WH

With these dark words begins my Tale;

And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring When Prayer is of no avail.

'What is good for a bootless bene?'
The Falconer to the Lady said;

And she made answer, 'Endless Sorrow!'
For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the Falconer's words,
And by the look in the Falconer's eye,
And by the love that was in her soul
For her youthful Romilly.

-Young Romilly through Barden woods
Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,

To let slip on buck or doe.

The pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in

With rocks on either side.

The striding place is called The Strid,

A name it took of yore;

A thousand years hath it borne that name,

And shall a thousand more.

And thither has young Romilly come,
And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,
Shall bound across the Strid?

He sprang in glee,-for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap.

The Boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force,

And never more was young Romilly seen,

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,
And sad, unspeaking sorrow:
Wharf shall be to pitying hearts,
A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a lover the Lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death ;—
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day,
Which was to be to-morrow:

Her hope was a further-looking hope,
And her's is a mother's sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,
And proudly did its branches wave;
And the root of this delightful tree
Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long, in darkness did she sit,

And her first words were, 'Let there be,
In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,
A stately Priory!'

The stately Priory was built,
And Wharf as he moved along,
To matins joined a mournful voice,
Nor failed at evensong.

And the Lady prayed in heaviness,
That looked not for relief!

But slowly did her succour come,
And a patience to her grief.

Oh, there is never sorrow of heart,
That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn, and ask

Of Him to be our Friend.

SONNET.

(Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1803.)

E

ARTH has not anything to show more fair;

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty ;

This City now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will;
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still.