O'er rough and smooth she trips along, That whistles in the wind. VIII. ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY. 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, At length I to the boy called out; The boy then smacked his whip, and fast 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!" the word was last and first, As if her very heart would burst; "What ails you, child?" She sobbed, 'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke ; "And whither are you going, child, "Look here! She sate like one past all relief; "My child, in Durham do you dwell?" And I to Durham, sir, belong." The chaise drove on; our journey's end Up to the tavern-door we post; "And let it be of duffil grey, IX. WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; "Sisters and brothers, little maid, "How many? Seven in all," she said, "And where are they? I pray you tell." 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, If two are in the church-yard laid, "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. My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit- And often after sunset, sir, 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, My brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, "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!" X. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT, I HAVE a boy of five years old; His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, One morn we strolled on our dry walk, My thoughts on former pleasures ran; A day it was when I could bear To think-and think-and think again; My boy was by my side, so slim The young lambs ran a pretty race; My little boy, which like you more," "Our home by Kilve's delightful shore, And tell me, had you rather be," "At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea, In careless mood he looked at me, |