Lucy Gray

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:And, when I crossed the Wild,I chanced to see at break of dayThe solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide Moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,The Hare upon the Green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—You to the Town must go;And take a lantern, Child, to lightYour 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 hookAnd snapped a faggot-band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer 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 nightWent shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the Moor;And thence they saw the Bridge of wood,A furlong from their door.

And, turning homeward, now they cried"In Heaven we all shall meet!"—When in the snow the Mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edgeThey 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 bankThe footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living Child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome Wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.