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My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain ;

And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little maid's reply,

"O master, we are seven."

"But they are dead,-those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away, for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven."

KING JOHN.

SHAKSPEARE.

(EXTRACT)

CONSTANCE.

GRIEF fills the room up of my absent child ;
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form ;
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.—
Fare you well!--had you such loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head
When there is such disorder in my wit.

[Tears off her head-dress.

Oh Lord! my boy! my Arthur! my fair son,
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow's comfort, and my sorrow's care!

SKETCH OF A YOUNG LADY,

FIVE MONTHS OLD.

W. PRAED.

My pretty, budding, breathing flower,
Methinks if I, to-morrow,
Could manage, just for half-an-hour,
Sir Joshua's brush to borrow,

I might immortalize a few

Of all the myriad graces,

Which time, while yet they all are new,
With newer still replaces.

I'd paint, my child, your deep blue eyes,
Their quick and earnest flashes,
I'd paint the fringe that round them lies,
The fringe of long dark lashes;
I'd draw, with most fastidious care,

One eyebrow, then the other,

And that smooth forehead, broad and fair,

The forehead of your mother.

Y

I'd oft retouch the dimpled cheek,

Where health in sunshine dances, And oft the pouting lips, where speak A thousand voiceless fancies; And the soft neck would keep me longThe neck more smooth and snowy Than ever yet in schoolboy's song Had Caroline or Chloe.

Nor less on those twin rounded arms
My new-found skill would linger,
Nor less upon the rosy charms

Of every tiny finger,

Nor slight the small feet, cherished one, So prematurely clever,

That though they neither walk nor run, I think they'd jump for ever.

But then your odd endearing ways,
What study e'er could catch them—

Your aimless gestures, endless plays,

What canvas e'er could match them ?—

Your lively leap of merriment,

Your murmur of petition, Your serious silence of content,

Your laugh of recognition?