She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me.
LUCY GRAY, OR SOLITUDE.
Oft 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 nevermore 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."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'T is scarcely afternoon,—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a fagot-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.