I asked her why she loitered there,
When the night wind was so chill;
She turned her head, and bade the child
That screamed behind, be still.

She told us that her husband served,
A soldier, far away;

And therefore to her parish she
Was begging back her way.

I turned me to the rich man then,
For silently stood he;

You asked me why the poor complain,
And these have answered thee.

LUCY GRAY.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor;
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Behind a cottage 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.

SOUTHEY.

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, I will gladly do; "Tis scarcely after noon;

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 there 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!

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 footsteps, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank ;-
And further there were none.

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.

WORDSWORTH.

THE WEST.

A BEAM of tranquillity smiled in the West,
The storms of the morning pursued us no more;
And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest,
Still heaved as remembering ills that were o'er.

Serenely my heart took the hue of the hour,
Its passions were sleeping-were mute as the dead;
And the spirit becalmed but remembered their power,
As the billow the force of the gale that was fled.

I thought of the days when to pleasure alone
My heart ever granted a wish or a sigh;

When the saddest emotion my bosom had known
Was pity for those who were wiser than I.

I felt how the pure intellectual fire

In luxury loses its heavenly ray,

How soon in the lavishing cup of desire

The pearl of the soul may be melted away.

And I prayed of that Spirit who lighted the flame,
That pleasure no more might its purity dim,
And that sullied but little, or brightly the same,
I might give back the gem I had borrowed from him.

The thought was extatic: I felt as if heaven
Had already the wreath of eternity shewn,
As if passion all chastened, and error forgiven,
My heart had begun to be purely its own.

I looked to the West, and the beautiful sky
Which morning had clouded, was clouded no more;
"Oh thus," I exclaimed, can a heavenly eye
Shed light on a soul that was darkened before."

T. MOORE.

MY FATHER'S AT THE HELM.

THE curling waves with awful roar
A little bark assailed;

And pallid fear's distracting power
O'er all on board prevailed.

Save one, the captain's darling child,
Who steadfast viewed the storm;
And cheerful, with composure smiled
At danger's threatening form.

"And fear'st thou not," a seaman cried,
"While terrors overwhelm ? "

Why should I fear?" the boy replied,
"My father's at the helm."

So when our worldly all is reft,

Our earthly helper gone,

We still have one true anchor left;
God helps, and He alone.