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Now with her empty can the maiden turned away;
SEVEN TIMES ONE. But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.
THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven. Right towards the lamb she looked ; and from a
I've said my seven times " over and over, shady place
Seven times one are seven.
I am old, — so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done. Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid
The lambs play always, they know no better ; might sing :
They are only one times one. “What ails thee, young one ? — what? Why pull so at thy cord ?
O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing Is it not well with thee? — well both for bed and And shining so round and low. board ?
You were bright -- ah, bright — but your light Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ;
is failing; Rest, little young one, rest; what is 't that You are nothing now but a bow. aileth thee ?
You Moon ! have you done something wrong in “Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought heaven, thee in this can
That God has hidden your face? Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran; I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And twice in the day, when the ground is wet And shine again in your place.
with dew, I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it | O velvet Bee ! you ’re a dusty fellow, is, and new.
You 've powdered your legs with gold.
O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, “ Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as
Give me your money to hold ! they are now ; Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, the plough.
Where two twin turtle doves dwell ! My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind | O Cuckoo-pint ! toll me the purple clapper is cold,
That hangs in your clear green bell ! Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.
And show me your nest, with the young ones in
it, “ Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the I will not steal them away :
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is
I am seven times one to-day. hard by
JEAN INGELOW. Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again !”
WE ARE SEVEN. As homeward through the lane I went with lazy
A SIMPLE child, feet,
That lightly draws its breath, This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ;
And feels its life in every limb, And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by
What should it know of death! line, That but half of it was hers, and one half of it
I met a little cottage girl : was mine,
She was eight years old, she said ; Again, and once again, did I repeat the song ;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head. “Nay,” said I, more than half to the damsel
must belong, For she looked with such a look, and she spake
She had a rustic, woodland air, with such a tone,
And she was wildly clad ; That I almost received her heart into my own."
Her eyes were fair, and very fair; –
Her beauty made me glad.
“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.”
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy ;
I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways ;
That I had less to praise.
Thy thanks to all that aid ;
The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears, These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.
“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 kerchief there I hem ;
And sing a song to them.
Sorrows I've had, severe ones,
I will not think of now;
But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.
" 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,
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.
Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new ;
My light, where'er I go ;
My bird, when prison-bound ; My hand-in-hand companion — No,
My prayers shall hold thee round. To say, “He has departed”.
“His voice" — “his face To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on,
Ah, I could not endure
To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure
That it will not be so.
- is gone,
“And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
And he lies by her side"
Yes, still he 's fixed, and sleeping !
This silence too the while, -
Something divine and dim
Seems going by one's ear,
From out a balmy bosom
Our bud of beauty grew;
On tears for daintier dew :
Our leaves of love were curled So close and close about our wee
White Rose of all the world.
With mystical faint fragrance
Our house of life she filled ; Revealed each hour some fairy tower
Where wingéd hopes might build ! We saw — though none like us might see —
Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee
White Rose of all the world.
But, evermore the halo
Of angel-light increased,
That folds some fairy feast.
Our darling bud up-curled,
White Rose of all the world.
O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes !
O the price were high
That those shoes would buy,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,
With a tearful pleasure,
That little dear treasure,
And blue eyes she sees
Look up from her knees
A little sweet face
That's a gleam in the place, With its little gold curls of hair. Then 0 wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part
Than those tiny blue shoes
That no little feet use, And whose sight makes such fond tears start!
WILLIAM C. BENNETT.
OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. All in our marriage garden
Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever
Suckt the green warmth of the sod; O beautiful unfathomably
Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee
White Rose of all the world.
AMONG the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all ; Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe ; Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge, Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge ; Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest, Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
This name, whoever chance to call
Perhaps your smile may win. Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall Over mine eyes, and feel withal
The sudden tears within.
Is there a leaf that greenly grows
Where summer meadows bloom, But gathereth the winter snows, And changeth to the hue of those,
If lasting till they come ?
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round With sad associate thoughts the same ? And so to me my very name
Assumes a mournful sound.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep : Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow, We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago ; But his feet on the hills grew weary, '
And, one of the autumn eves, I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves. Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace, As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face ; And when the arrows of sunset
Lolged in the tree-tops bright, He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light. Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
My brother gave that name to me
When we were children twain, When names acquired baptismally Were hard to utter, as to see
That life had any pain.
No shade was on us then, save one
Of chestnuts from the hill, And through the word our laugh did run As part thereof. The mirth being done,
He calls me by it still.
Nay, do not smile! I hear in it
What none of you can hear, The talk upon the willow seat, The bird and wind that did repeat Around, our human cheer.
Though I write books, it will be read
Upon the leaves of none, And afterward, when I am dead, Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, Across my funeral-stone.
Now God be thanked for years enwrought
With love which softens yet. Now God be thanked for every thought Which is so tender it has caught
Earth's guerdon of regret.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Earth saddens, never shall remove,
Where once we dweltour name is heard no more; Affections purely given ;
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And e'en that mortal grief shall prove And where the gardener Robin, day by day, The immortality of love,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped
Short-lived possession ! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : O that those lips had language ! Life has passed Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, With me but roughly since I heard thee last. That thou mightstknow me safe and warmly laid; Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet smile I see, Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; The biscuit, or confectionery plum; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed “Grieve not, my child ; chase all thy fears By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and
glowed, The meek intelligence of those dear eyes All this, and, more endearing still than all, (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, – The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. That humor interposed too often makes ;
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear ! All this, still legible in meniory's page,
Such honors to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, But gladly, as the precept were her owll; Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. And, while that face renews my filial grief, Could time, his flight reversed, restore the Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
hours Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowA momentary dream that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, The violet, the pink, the jessamine, – Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? I pricked them into paper with a pin, Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, (And thou wast happier than myself the whileWretch even then, life's journey just begun? Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
smile,) Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss - Could those few pleasant days again appear, Ah, that maternal smile! it answers Yes. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ;
here? I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; I would not trust my heart, the dear delight And, turning from my nursery window, drew Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
what here we call our life is such, But was it such ?- It was. - Where thou art gone So little to be loved, and thou so much, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; That I should ill requite thee to constrain May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thou — as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, What ardently I wished I long believed, Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile; And, disappointed still, was still deceived, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show By expectation every day beguiled,
Her beauteous form reflected clear below, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
While airs impregnated with incense play Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the I learned at last submission to my lot ;
shore But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. “Where tempests never beat nor billows roar" :