THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE

GAINED THEM.

OU are old, Father William," the young man cried;

"The few locks which are left you are grey:

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

“In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away,

And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remembered that youth could not last;

I thought of the future whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death; Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage:

In the days of my youth I remembered my God,
And he hath not forgotten my age."

SOUTHEY.

The Palmer.

103

THE PALMER.

PEN the door, some pity to show!
Keen blows the northern wind!

The glen is white with the drifted snow, And the path is hard to find.

No outlaw seeks your castle gate,

From chasing the king's deer,

Though even an outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.

A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;
Oh, open, for our Lady's sake!
A pilgrim's blessing win!

The hare is crouching in her form,
The hart beside the hind;

An aged man, amid the storm,

No shelter can I find.

You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,
Dark, deep, and strong is he;
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
Unless you pity me.

The iron gate is bolted hard,

At which I knock in vain;

The owner's heart is closer barred,
Who hears me thus complain.

Farewell, farewell! and Heaven grant,

When old and frail you be,

You never may the shelter want,

That's now denied to me!"

The Ranger on his couch lay warm,

And heard him plead in vain; But of, amid December's storm, He'll hear that voice again.

For lo, when through the vapours dank

Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

A corpse, amid the alders rank,

The Palmer weltered there.

SIR W. SCOTT.

LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE.

FT I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And, when I crossed 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.

"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.

Lucy Gray.

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.

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 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 spied

The print of Lucy's feet.

105

Then downward 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,
The 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.

WORDSWORTH.

66

come forth

ELLEN MORE.

WEET Ellen More," said I,

Beneath the sunny sky;

Why sit you musing all alone,

With such an anxious eye?

What is it, child, that aileth you?"

And thus she made reply:—