curve my banks I fret by many a field and fallōw,... and many a fairy fōreland set with willow-weed and mallow. 4. I chatter, chatter, as I flow to join the brimming river;...for men may come and men may gō, but I go on for ever. 5. I wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing,...and here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling. 6. And here and there a foamy flake upon me as I travel,... with many a silver wâterbreak above the golden gravel. 7. And draw them âll along, and flow to join the brimming river,...for men may come and men may gō, but I gō on for ever. 8. I, steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slīde by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots that grow for happy lovers. 9. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, among my skimming swâllows; I make the netted sunbeam dance against my sandy shallows. 10. I murmur under moon and stärs in brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bärs; I loiter round mỹ cresseș. 11. And out again I curve and flow to join the brimming river,...for men may come and men may gō, but I go on for ever.

43.-LUCY GRAY.

1. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; and, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day, the solitary child. 2. Nō mate, no comrade Lucy knew; she dwelt on a wide moor-the sweetest

thing that ever grew beside a human dōor! 3. Yoû yet may spy the fawn at play, the hare upon the green; but the sweet face of Lucy Gray will never mōre be seen. 4. "To-night will bē a stormy nightyou to the town must go, and take a lantern, child, to light your mother through the snow." 5. "That, father, will I gladly do: 'tis scarcely afternoon-ṭhe minster clock has just struck two, and ÿonder is the moon." 6. At this the father rais'd his hook, and snapt a faggot-band; hē plied his work, and Lūċy took the lantern in her hand. 7. Not blither is the mountain roe; with many a wanton stroke...her feet disperse the powdery snow, that rīṣes up like smōke. 8. The storm came on before its time; she wândered up and down; and many a hill did Lucy climb, but never reached the town. 9. The wretched parents âll that night went shouting fär and wide; but there was neither sound nor sight to serve them for a guide. 10. At daybreak on a hill they stood that ōverlooked the moor; and thence they saw the bridge of wood, a furlong from their door. 11. They wept and turning homewârd, cried, "In heaven wē âll shall meet❞—when in the snow the mother spied the print of Lucy's feet. 12. Then downwards from the steep hill's edge they tracked the foot-märks smâll; and through the brōken hawthorn hedge, and by the long stone wâll; 13. And then an ōpen field they crossed the märks were still the same; they tracked them on nor ever lost, and to the bridge they came. 14. They followed from the snowy bank

thōṣe footmärks, one by one, into the middle of the plank; and further there were none! 15. Yet some maintain that to this day she is a living child; that you may see sweet Lucy Gray upon the lonesome wild. 16. O'er rough and smooth she trips along, and never looks behind; and sings a solitary song that whistles in the wind.

44.-FIDELITY.

A bärking sound the Shepherd hears,
A cry as of a dog or fox;
He hâlts-and searches with his eyes
Among the scattered rocks:

And now at distance can dişċern
A stirring in a brake of fern;
And instantly a dog is seen,
Glancing through that covert green.

The Dog is not of mountain breed;

Its motions, too, are wild and shỹ;
With something, as the Shepherd thinks,
Unusual in its cry:

Nor is there any one in sight

All round, in hollow or on height;

Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear;

What is the creature doing here?

It was a cōve, a huge reċess,

That keeps, till June, December'ṣ snōw; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tärn below!

Fär in the bosom of Helvellyn,

Remote from public road or dwelling,

Pathway, or cultivated land;

From trace of human fọọt or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish
Send through the tärn a lōnely cheer;
The crags repeat the raven's croak,
In symphony austēre;

Thither the rainbow comes-the cloud-
And mists that spread the flying shroud;
And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,
That, if it could, woüld hurry past;
But that enormous barriër holds it fast.
Not free from bōding thoughts, awhile
The Shepherd stood; then makes his way
O'er rocks and stōnes, following the Dog
As quickly as he may;

Nor fär had gone before he found
A human skeleton on the ground;
The appâlled discoverer with a sigh
Looks round, to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks

The man had fallen, that place of fear!
At length upon the Shepherd's mind
It breaks, and âll is clear:

He instantly recâlled the name,
And who he was, and whence he came;
Remembered, too, the very day

On which the Traveller past this way.

But hear a wonder, for whoṣe sāke
This lamentable tale I tell!

A lasting monument of words

This wonder merits well.

The Dog, which still was hovering nigh,

Repeating the same timid cry,

This Dog had been through three months spāċe

A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day

When this ill-fated Traveller died,

The Dog had watched about the spot,

Or by his mäster's side:

How nourished here through such long time
He knōwṣ, who gave that love sublime;
And gave that strength of feeling, great
Above all human estimate!

45.

HOHENLINDEN.

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And därk as winter was the flōw

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight

When the drum beat at dead of night,