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.

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!" 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 scare-crow dangled.

'Twas twisted between 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."

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 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!

W. Wordsworth.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF.

H! call my brother back to me!

I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and bee,

Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;

I care not now to chase its flight--
Oh! call my brother back!

"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd

Around our garden-tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load

Oh! call him back to me!"

"He would not hear my voice, fair child,

He may not come to thee;

The face that once like spring-time smiled,

On earth no more thou'lt see.

"A rose's brief, bright light of joy,

Such unto him was given;
Go-thou must play alone, my boy!
Thy brother is in heaven!"

"And has he left his birds and flowers?

And must I call in vain?

And through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er?

Oh! while my brother with me play'd,

Would I had loved him more!"

Felicia Hemans.

LITTLE CHILDREN.

PORTING through the forest wide ;
Playing by the waterside;

Wandering o'er the heathy fells,
Down within the woodland dells;
All among the mountains wild
Dwelleth many a little child!