As if the wind blew many ways

I heard the sound,-and more and more,
It seemed to follow with the chaise,
And still I heard it as before.

At length I to the boy called out;
He stopped his horses at the word;
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout,
Nor aught else like it could be heard.

The boy then smacked his whip, and fast
The horses scampered through the rain;
And soon I heard upon the blast
The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,

"What can it be, this piteous moan?"

And there a little girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

"My cloak!" the word was last and first

And loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her very heart would burst;

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 scare-crow dangled.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;
Her help she lent, and with good heed
Together we released the cloak;
A wretched, wretched rag indeed!

Alice Fell.

"And whither are you going, child,
To night along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham," answered she half wild-
"Then come with me into the chaise."

She sat like one past all relief;
Sob after sob she forth did send
In wretchedness, as if her grief
Could never, never have an end.

"My child, in Durham do you dwell?”
She checked herself in her distress,
And said, "My name is Alice Fell;
I'm fatherless and motherless.

And I to Durham, sir, belong."

And then, as if the thought would choke
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tattered cloak!

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

113

WORDSWORTH.

THE ORPHANS.

Y chaise the village inn did gain,

Just as the setting sun's last ray

Tipped with refulgent gold the vane Of the old church across the way.

Across the way I silent sped,

The time till supper to beguile In moralizing o'er the dead

That mouldered round the ancient pile.

There many a humble green grave showed
Where want, and pain, and toil, did rest;
And many a flattering stone I viewed

O'er those who once had wealth possest.

A faded beech its shadow brown

. Threw o'er a grave where sorrow slept,
On which, though scarce with grass o'ergrown,
Two ragged children sat and wept.

A piece of bread between them lay,
Which neither seemed inclined to take,
And yet they looked so much a prey
To want, it made my heart to ache.

"My little children, let me know,

Why you in such distress appear,

And why you wasteful from you throw

That bread which many a one might cheer?"

The little boy, in accents sweet,

Replied, while tears each other chased

"Lady! we've not enough to eat,

Ah! if we had we should not waste.

The Orphans.

But sister Mary's naughty grown,
And will not eat, whate'er I say,
Though sure I am the bread's her own,
For she has tasted none to-day."

'Indeed," the wan, starved Mary said, "Till Henry eats, I'll eat no more, For yesterday I got some bread,

He's had none since the day before."

My heart did swell, my bosom heave,
I felt as though deprived of speech;
Silent I sat upon the grave,

And clasped the clay-cold hand of each.

With looks of woe too sadly true,

With looks that spoke a grateful heart,
The shivering boy then nearer drew,
And did his simple tale impart.

"Before my father went away,
Enticed by bad men o'er the sea,
Sister and I did nought but play-
We lived beside yon great ash tree.

But then poor mother did so cry,

And looked so changed, I cannot tell,
She told us that she soon should die,
And bade us love each other well.

She said that, when the war was o'er,
Perhaps we might our father see;

But if we never saw him more,

That God our father then would be!

115

She kissed us both, and then she died,
And we no more a mother have;
Here many a day we've sat and cried
Together at poor mother's grave.

But when my father came not here,
I thought if we could find the sea,
We should be sure to meet him there,
And once again might happy be.

We hand and hand went many a mile,
And asked our way of all we met;
And some did sigh, and some did smile,
And we of some did victuals get.

But when we reached the sea and found
'Twas one great water round us spread,
We thought that father must be drowned,

And cried, and wished we both were dead.

So we returned to mother's grave,
And only long with her to be;
For goody, when this bread she gave,
Said father died beyond the sea.

Then since no parent we have here,
We'll go and search for God around;

Lady, pray, can you tell us where
That God, our father, may be found?

He lives in heaven, mother said,

And goody says that mother's there! So, if she knows we want his aid,

I think perhaps she'll send him here."