It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring, But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling, With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: "Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we ?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair, Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding place, and we will keep him there."

Oh vain! they took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast, and o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the

morrow,

From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.

6.-" WE ARE SEVEN."

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

[Wordsworth was born at Cockermouth, Cumberland, 1770. He was educated at Hawkshead School, and entered St. John's College, Cambridge, 1787. His first work, "Descriptive Sketches," obtained but few readers, and it was a quarter of a century before his poetical merits were acknowledged. Wordsworth was some time poet-laureate. His published poems extend to six volumes, 8vo. He died in 1850.]

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl,
That clustered round her head:

She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair:
Her beauty made me glad:

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be ?"

"How many P seven in all," she said,
And wondering look'd at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we :
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the churchyard cottage I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea :

Yet ye are seven-I pray you, tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we,
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five.'

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied;

"Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door, And they are side by side;

"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 play'd,
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.”

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"—
'Twas throwing words away: for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven !"

7.-ON HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

WILLIAM COWPER.

[Cowper was born at Berkhampstead in 1731, and after receiving the rudiments of education at a country school, was removed to Westminster. On quitting school he was articled to an attorney, but his extreme nervousness, which never left him through life, and at one time deepened into insanity, totally unfitted him for any public occupation. His writings reflect the gloom and gleam that characterized his career. He died in 1800.]

Oн that those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last :
Those lips are thine-thine own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize-
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, Life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown:
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return,
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And, disappointed still, was still deceiv'd.
By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learn'd at last submission to

my lot;

But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more-
Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor;
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd,
'Tis now become a histʼry little known,
That once we called the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac❜d.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might'st know me safe, and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home-
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone, and glow'd;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this, still legible in mem'ry's page,

And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere-

Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.
Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while—
Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile)—
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weather'd and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle,

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay:
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,'
And thy lov'd consort on the dang❜rous tide
Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to obtain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distrest-
Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd,
Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.

And now farewell!-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem t' have liv'd my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,