O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

VIII.

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY.

THE post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When suddenly I seemed to hear

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

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,
And loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her very heart would burst;
And down from off her seat she leapt.

"What ails you, child?" She sobbed,
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scare-crow dangled.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke ;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the cloak;
A wretched, wretched 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.'

"Look here!

She sate like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.

"My child, in Durham do you dwell?"
She checked herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, sir, belong."
And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak !

The chaise drove on; our journey's end
Was nigh; and, sitting by my side,
As if she'd lost her only friend
She wept, nor would be pacified.

Up to the tavern-door we post;
Of Alice and her grief I told;
And I gave money to the host,
To buy a new cloak for the old.

"And let it be of duffil grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell !
Proud creature was she the next day,
The little orphan, Alice Fell!

IX.

WE ARE SEVEN.

A SIMPLE child

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"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,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this inay be?"

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five.'

"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-
I sit and sing to them.

And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was little Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,

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,
And dearly he loves me.

One morn we strolled on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore.
Our pleasant home, when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear

To think-and think-and think again;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talked to him,
In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race;
The morning sun shone bright and warm;
'Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My little boy, which like you more,"
I said, and took him by the arm-

"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm?

And tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and held him by the arm,

"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm ?"

In careless mood he looked at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm.'