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Rh Not blither is the mountain roe; With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time; She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reach'd the town. 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 day-break on a hill they stood, That overlook'd the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from the door. They wept, and turning homeward, cried, "In heaven we all shall meet!"— When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet!

Half-breathless, 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 them on, nor ever lost, And to the bridge they came.

They follow'd from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank— And further there were none!