"My cloak!" no other word she spake,1
But loud and bitterly she wept,2

As if her innocent heart would break ;3
And down from off her seat she leapt.

"What ails you, child?"—she sobbed "Look here!" I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten rag as e'er

From any garden scare-crow dangled.

There, twisted between nave and spoke,
It hung, nor could at once be freed;
But our joint pains unloosed the cloak,5
A miserable rag indeed!"

"And whither are you going, child,
To-night along these lonesome ways?"
"To Durham," answered she, half wild-
"Then come with me into the chaise."

1

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 checked 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 tattered 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!

1846.

In Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, the following reference to this poem occurs :-"Feb. 16, 1802.-Mr Graham said he wished William had been with him the other day. He was riding in a post-chaise, and he heard a strange cry that he could not understand. The sound continued, and he called to the chaise-driver to stop. It was a little girl that was crying as if her heart would burst. She had got up behind the chaise, and her cloak had been caught by the wheel, and was jammed in, and it hung there. She was crying after it, poor thing. Mr Graham took her into the chaise, and her cloak was released from the wheel, but the child's misery did not cease, for her cloak was torn to rags. It had been a miserable cloak before; but she had no other, and it was the greatest sorrow that could befall her. Her name was Alice Fell. She had no parents, and belonged to the next town. At the next town Mr G. left money to buy her a new cloak." "Friday (March 12).—In the evening after tea William wrote Alice Fell." "Saturday Morning (13th March).-William finished Alice Fell, and then wrote the Poem of the Beggar Woman. . . ."--Ed.

[Written at Town-end, Grasmere. Me, and described to me by my sister, near the quarry at the head of Rydal Lake, a place still a chosen resort of vagrants travelling with their families.]

SHE had a tall man's height or more;

Her face from summer's noontide heat
No bonnet shaded, but she wore

A mantle, to her very feet

Descending with a graceful flow,

And on her head a cap as white as new-fallen snow.1

She had a tall man's height, or more;

No bonnet screened her from the heat,

A long drab-coloured 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. 1807.

Nor claimed she service from the hood

Of a blue mantle, to her feet

Her skin was of Egyptian brown:
Haughty, as if her eye had seen
Its own light to a distance thrown,
She towered, fit person for a Queen 1

To lead those ancient Amazonian files; 2

Or ruling Bandit's wife among the Grecian isles.

Advancing, forth she stretched her hand

And begged an alms with doleful plea

Depending with a graceful flow;

Only she wore a cap pure as unsullied snow.

Before my eyes a Wanderer stood;

1827.

Her face from summer's noonday heat

No bonnet shaded, nor the hood

Of that blue cloak which to her feet

Depended with a graceful flow;

Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

1832.

Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

C.

She had a tall man's height or more;

A garment for her stature meet,

And for a vagrant life she wore

A mantle reaching to her feet.

Nor hood, nor bonnet screened her lofty brow,

Only she wore a cap as white as new-fallen snow.

C.

That ceased not; on our English land
Such woes, I knew, could never be;1

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 followed with his hat in hand,

Wreathed round with yellow flowers the gayest of the land.

The other wore a rimless crown

With leaves of laurel stuck about;

And, while both followed up and down,3

Each whooping with a merry shout,

With yellow flowers around, as with a golden band. c.

3

1827.

And they both followed up and down,

1807.