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HE post-boy drove with fierce career,
When, as we hurried on, my ear
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
But, hearing soon upon the blast
Forthwith alighting on the ground,
"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?
And there a little Girl I found,
Sitting behind the chaise, alone.
no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,
As if her innocent heart would break ;
And down from off her seat she leapt.
"What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!"
I saw it in the wheel entangled,
A weather-beaten rag as e'er
From any garden scarecrow dangled.
There, twisted between nave and spoke,
"And whither are you going, child,
Insensible to all relief
Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.
"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 duffel grey,
As warm a cloak as man can sell!"
Proud creature was she the next day,
FT I had heard of Lucy Gray
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 nightYou 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 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.