A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

[Composed March 11, 12, 1802.-Published 1807.]

One morning (raw it was and wet-
A foggy day in winter time)

A Woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime:
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair;

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your Cloak,

Protected from this cold damp air?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little Singing-bird."

And, thus continuing, she said,
"I had a Son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travelled weary miles to see

If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage they both were his:

'Twas my Son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages

The singing-bird had gone with him;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;-there
I found it when my Son was dead;

And now; God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it."

ALICE FELL;

OR, POVERTY.

[Composed March 12, 13, 1802, though probably conceived much earlier. Published 1807.]

The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drowned;
When, as we hurried on, my ear

Was smitten with a startling sound.

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;
But, hearing soon upon the blast

The cry, I bade him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

"Whence comes," said I, "this piteous moan?"
And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the chaise, alone.

"My cloak!" no other word she spake,
But loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her innocent heart would break;
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.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,
A miserable rag indeed!

"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."

Insensible to all relief

Sat the poor girl, and forth did send
Sob after sob, 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."
Again, 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 had 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!

BEGGARS

[Composed March 13, 14, 1802.-Published 1807.]

She had a tall man's height or more;

Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore

A mantle, to her very feet

Descending with a graceful flow,

And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen
To lead those ancient Amazonian files;

Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand
And begged an alms with doleful plea
That ceased not; on our English land
Such woes, I knew, could never be;

And yet a boon I gave her, for the creature

Was beautiful to see a weed of glorious feature.

I left her, and pursued my way;
And soon before me did espy
A pair of little Boys at play,
Chasing a crimson butterfly;

The taller followed with his hat in hand,

Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown
With leaves of laurel stuck about;
And while both followed up and down,
Each whooping with a merry shout,
In their fraternal features I could trace
Unquestionable lines of that wild Suppliant's face.

Yet they, so blithe of heart, seemed fit
For finest tasks of earth or air:

Wings let them have, and they might flit
Precursors to Aurora's car,

Scattering fresh flowers; though happier far, I ween,
To hunt their fluttering game o'er rock and level green.

They dart across my path-but lo,
Each ready with a plaintive whine!
Said I, "not half an hour ago

Your Mother has had alms of mine."

"That cannot be," one answered-"she is dead:"-
I looked reproof-they saw-but neither hung his head.

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day."-
"Hush, boys! you're telling me a lie;
It was your Mother, as I say!"

And, in the twinkling of an eye,

"Come! come!" cried one, and without more ado Off to some other play the joyous Vagrants flew!

SEQUEL TO THE FOREGOING

COMPOSED MANY YEARS AFTER

[Composed 1817.-Published 1827.]

Where are they now, those wanton Boys?
For whose free range the dædal earth

Was filled with animated toys,

And implements of frolic mirth;

With tools for ready wit to guide;

And ornaments of seemlier pride,

More fresh, more bright, than princes wear;