POEMS COMPOSED DURING A TOUR, CHIEFLY ON FOOT.

She had a tall Man's height, or more; No bonnet screen'd her from the heat; A long drab-colour'd Cloak she wore, A Mantle reaching to her feet: What other dress she had I could not know; Only she wore a Cap that was as white as snow.

In all my walks, through field or town, Such Figure had I never seen: Her face was of Egyptian brown: Fit person was she for a Queen, To head those ancient Amazonian files: Or ruling Bandit's Wife, among the Grecian Isles.

Before me begging did she stand, Pouring out sorrows like a sea; Grief after grief:—on English Land Such woes I knew could never be; And yet a boon I gave her; for the Creature Was beautiful to see; a Weed of glorious feature!

I left her, and pursued my way; And soon before me did espy A pair of little Boys at play, Chasing a crimson butterfly; The Taller follow'd with his hat in hand, Wreath'd round with yellow flow'rs, the gayest of the land.

The Other wore a rimless crown, With leaves of laurel stuck about: And they both follow'd up and down, Each whooping with a merry shout; Two Brothers seem'd they, eight and ten years old; And like that Woman's face as gold is like to gold.

They bolted on me thus, and lo! Each ready with a plaintive whine; Said I, "Not half an hour ago Your Mother has had alms of mine." "That cannot be," one answer'd, "She is dead." "Nay but I gave her pence, and she will buy you bread."

"She has been dead, Sir, many a day." "Sweet Boys, you're telling me a lie"; "It was your Mother, as I say—" And in the twinkling of an eye, "Come, come!" cried one; and, without more ado, Off to some other play they both together flew.