'My child, in Durham do you dwell?'

She check'd herself in her distress, And said, 'My name is Alice Fell; I'm fatherless and motherless.

'And I to Durham, sir, belong.'

Again, as if the thought would choke Her very heart, her grief grew strong; And all was for her tatter'd cloak!

The chaise drove on; our journey's end Was nigh; and, sitting by my side, As if she had lost her only friends, 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!

_W. Wordsworth_

CLVII

_THE FIRST SWALLOW_

The gorse is yellow on the heath, The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring, The swallow, too, has come at last; Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch At the grey dawn of day.

_C. Smith_

CLVIII

_THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD_

They grew in beauty side by side, They fill'd one home with glee;-- Their graves are sever'd far and wide,-- By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow: She had each folded flower in sight,-- Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid-- The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one-- He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where Southern vines are drest Above the n.o.ble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee;

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth!-- Alas for love! if _thou_ wert all, And naught beyond, O, Earth!

_F. Hemans_

CLIX

_THE THRUSH'S NEST_

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a mole-hill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy; and oft, an unintruding guest, I watch'd her secret toils from day to day, How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, And modell'd it within with wool and clay.

And bye and bye, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, sh.e.l.ls of green and blue; And there I witness'd, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

_J. Clare_

CLX

_THE LAST OF THE FLOCK_

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In distant countries have I been, And yet I have not often seen A healthy man, a man full grown, Weep in the public roads alone; But such a one, on English ground, And in the broad highway I met; Along the broad highway he came, His cheeks with tears were wet; St.u.r.dy he seem'd, though he was sad; And in his arms a lamb he had.

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He saw me, and he turn'd aside, As if he wish'd himself to hide: And with his coat did then essay To wipe those briny tears away.

I follow'd him and said, 'My friend, What ails you! wherefore weep you so?'

--'Shame on me, sir! this l.u.s.ty lamb, He makes my tears to flow.

To-day I fetch'd him from the rock; He is the last of all my flock.

3

'When I was young, a single man, And after youthful follies ran, Though little given to care and thought, Yet so it was, an ewe I bought; And other sheep from her I raised, As healthy sheep as you might see; And then I married, and was rich As I could wish to be; Of sheep I number'd a full score, And every year increas'd my store.

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'Year after year my stock it grew; And from this one, this single ewe, Full fifty comely sheep I raised, As fine a flock as ever grazed!

Upon the Quantock Hills they fed; They throve, and we at home did thrive: --This l.u.s.ty lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty.

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