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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 fastThe horses scamper'd through the rain;And soon I heard upon the blastThe voice, and bade 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!" the word was last and first,And loud and bitterly she wept,As if her very heart would burst;And down from off the Chaise she leapt.
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