Ancient homes of lord and lady,

Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer:
Evermore she seems to gaze
On that cottage growing nearer,

Where they twain will spend their days. O but she will love him truly!

He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly,
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly,
Till a gateway she discerns
With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic

Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic

Bows before him at the door.
And they speak in gentle murmur,
When they answer to his call,
While he treads with footstep firmer,
Leading on from hall to hall.
And, while now she wonders blindly,
Nor the meaning can divine,
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
"All of this is mine and thine."
Here he lives in state and bounty,
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free,

Not a lord in all the county

Is so great a lord as he. All at once the color flushes

Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shame she blushes, And her spirit changed within. Then her countenance all over

Pale again as death did prove:

But he clasp'd her like a lover,

And he cheer'd her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness, Tho' at times her spirit sank: Shaped her heart with woman's meekness To all duties of her rank: And a gentle consort made he, And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady,

And the people loved her much.
But a trouble weigh'd upon her,
And perplex'd her, night and morn,
With the burthen of an honor
Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter,
And she murmur'd, “Oh, that he
Were once more that landscape-painter,
Which did win my heart from me!"
So she droop'd and droop'd before him,
Fading slowly from his side:

Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died.
Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh,
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town.
And he came to look upon her,

And he look'd at her and said,
"Bring the dress and put it on her,

That she wore when she was wed."
Then her people, softly treading,
Bore to earth her body, drest
In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.

17

LUCY GRAY

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And when I cross'd the wild,

I chanced to see at break of day
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.

"Tonight 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! 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 snapp'd 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 wander'd up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reach'd 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 overlook'd the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their 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.

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge

They track'd the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall:

And then an open field they cross'd:

The marks were still the same;

They track'd them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came:

They follow'd from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

-Yet some maintain that to this day.
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

18

THE SINGING LEAVES

JAMES PUSSELL LOWELL

I

"What fairings 1 will ye that I bring?"
Said the King to his daughters three;
"For I to Vanity Fair am boun,2
Now say what shall they be?"

Then up and spake the eldest daughter,
That lady tall and grand:

"Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, And gold rings for my hand."

1. Fairing. A present, especially one bought at a fair. 2. Boun. Bound.