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CLV

THE THREE FISHERS

Three fishers went sailing away to the west,
Away to the west as the sun went down ;

Each thought on the woman who loved him best,
And the children stood watching them out of the

town;

For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and

brown.

But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,
And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. C. Kingsley

CLVI

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY

The post-boy drove with fierce career,
For threatening clouds the moon had drown'd;
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 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;
But hearing soon upon the blast
The cry, I made him halt again.

Forthwith alighting on the ground,

'Whence comes,' said I, 'that 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 sobb'd, 'Look here!' I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scarecrow 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,' answer'd 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 check'd 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 tatter'd cloak !

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

W. Wordsworth

CLVII

THE FIRST SWALLOW

The gorse is yellow on the heath,

The banks with speedwell flowers are gay, The oaks are budding, and, beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath, of May.

The welcome guest of settled Spring,
The swallow, too, has come at last ;
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach

To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch

At the grey dawn of day.

C. Smith

CLVIII

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

They grew in beauty side by side,
They fill'd one home with glee ;—
Their graves are sever'd far and wide,—
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow:
She had each folded flower in sight,—
Where are those dreamers now?

One, midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid-

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one—
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where Southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

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