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“ That, father, will I gladly do :

'Tis scarcely afternoon The minster [1] 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 the 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.

[1] Minster-cathedral church.

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 further there were none!


Small service is true service, while it lasts ;

Of friends, however humble, spurn not one;
The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,
Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.



How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd

The ploughboy's whistle and the milk-maid's song,
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded [1] grass, mingled with fading flowers
That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze:
Sounds the most faint attract the ear—the hum
Of early bee, the rustling of the leaves,
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, [2]
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tun'd song: the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen, [3]
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke,
O’ermounts the mist, is heard at intervals
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise.


How void of care yon merry thrush,
That sings melodious on the bush,
That has no stores of wealth to keep,
No lands to plough, no corn to reap !

He never frets for worthless things,
But lives in peace, and sweetly sings ;
Enjoys the present with his mate,
Unmindful of to-morrow's fate.

[1] Tedded grass-newly mown grass, laid in rows,
[2] Lea-enclosed pasture land.
[3] Glen--a valley.

Of true felicity possest,
He glides through life supremely blest ;
And for his daily meal relies
On Him whose love the world supplies,

Rejoiced he finds his morning fare,
His dinner lies he knows not where;
Still to th' unfailing hand he chants
His grateful song, and never wants.


Sweet to the morning traveller

The sky-lark's earliest song, Whose twinkling wings are seen by fits

The dewy light among.

And cheering to the traveller

The gales that round him play, When faint and wearily he drags

Along his noontide way.

And when beneath th' unclouded sun

Full wearily toils he,
The flowing water makes to him

Most pleasant melody.

And when the evening light decays,

And all is calm around, There is sweet music to his ear

In the distant sheep-bell's sound.

But oh! of all delightful sounds

Of evening or of morn,
The sweetest is the voice of love

That welcomes his return.




I miss thee from my side,

With thy merry eyes and blue ;
From thy crib, at morning tide,

Oft its curtains peeping through —
In the kisses, not a few,

Thou wert wont to give me then;
In the sleepy, sad adieu,

When 'twas time for bed again!

I miss thee from my side,

With thy query oft repeated ;
On thy rocking-horse astride,

Or beneath my table seated :-
Or, when tired and overheated

With a summer day's delight,
Many a childish aim defeated,

Sleep hath overpower'd thee quite !

I miss thee from my side,

When the light of day grows pale ;
When, with eyelids opened wide,

Thou would'st list the oft-told tale,

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