ADDRESS TO A CHILD, DURING A BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING.

BY A FEMALE FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.

WHAT way does the wind come? What way does he go? He rides over the water, and over the snow,

Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight.
He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,

And rings a sharp larum ;-but if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were cover'd with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

-Yet seek him-and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space,
Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he's left for a bed for beggars or thieves!

As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That look'd up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

-But let him range round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;

Untouch'd by his breath see the candle shines bright,
And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read,-hush! that half-stifled knell,
Methinks 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

-Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care;
He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in,
May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laugh'd amain,-
And shouted, "Mother come to me!"
Louder and louder did he shout
With witless hope to bring her near;
"Nay, patience! patience, little boy!
Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through ;-
He listens, puzzled, sore perplex'd,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery
Of time and distance, night and day,
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glec;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.

Then settling into fond discourse,
We rested in the garden bower;
While sweetly shone the evening sun,
In his departing hour.

We told o'er all that we had done,--
Our rambles by the swift brook's sido
Far as the willow-skirted pool,
Where two fair swans together glide.

We talk'd of change, of winter gone,
Of green leaves on the hawthorn spray,
Of birds that build their nests and sing,
And "all since Mother went away!"
To her these tales they will repeat,
To her our new-born tribes will show,
The goslings green, the ass's colt,
The lambs that in the meadow go.

-But, see, the evening star comes forth!
To bed the children must depart;
A moment's heaviness they feel,
A sadness at the heart:

'Tis gone-and in a merry fit

They run up stairs in gamesome raco;
I too, infected by their mood,

I could have join'd the wanton chase.
Five minutes past-and oh the change
Asleep upon their beds they lie;
Their busy limbs in perfect rest,
And closed the sparkling eye.

LUCY GRAY;

OR SOLITUDE.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I cross'd 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 grow
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.'

"

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 daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlook'd 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.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall:

And then an open field they cross'd:
The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They follow'd 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.

ALICE FELL.

THE post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threat'ning clouds the moon had drown'd;
When suddenly I seem'd to hear

A moan, a lamentable sound.

As if the wind blew many ways,

I heard the sound-and more and more:

It seem'd to follow with the chaise,
And still I heard it as before.

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

The boy then smack'd his whip, and fast
The horses scamper'd 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 sobb'd, "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scarecrow 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!
"And whither are you going, child,
To-night along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham," answer'd she half wild-
"Then come with me into the chaise."

She sate 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 check'd 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 choko
Her very heart, her grief grew strong;
And all was for her tatter'd 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!