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SEVEN TIMES TW0.-ROMANCE.

SEVEN TIMES THREE.-LOVE. COU bells in the steeple, ring, ring out LEANED out of window, I smelt the white your changes

clover, How many soever they be,

Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he gate; ranges

“Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one Come over, come over to me.

lover

Hush, nightingale, hush! ( sweet nightinYet bird's clearest carol, by fall or by swell gale, wait ing

Till I listen and hear No magical sense conveys,

If a step draweth near, And bells have forgotten their old art of tell

For my love he is late! ing The fortune of future days.

“ The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and

nearer, " Turn again, turn again,” once they rang A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, cheerily,

The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes While a boy listened alone;

clearer: Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily To what art thou listening, and what dost All by himself on a stone.

thou see?

Let the star-clusters glow, Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are

Let the sweet waters flow, over,

And cross quickly to me. And mine, they are yet to be; No listening, no longing shall aught, aught dis- “ You night-moths that hover where honey

briins over You leave the story to me.

From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep;

cover:

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And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender

and small! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's

own lasses,

Eager to gather them all.

*You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway

discover To him that comes darkling along the rough

steep.

Ah, my sailor, make haste,
For the time runs to waste,

And my love lieth deep-
Too deep for swift telling; and yet, my one

lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to

night.” By the sycamore passed he, and through the

white clover; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned

took flight;

But I'll love him more, more
Than e'er wife loved before,
Be the days dark or bright.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups !

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain; Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, That loved her brown little ones, loved them

full fain; Sing, “ Heart thou art wide, though the house

be but narrow,”

Sing once and sing it again.

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and

they bow; A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters, And haply one musing doth stand at her

prow. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daugh

ters,

May-be he thinks on you now!

SEVEN TIMES FOUR.-MATERNITY. LEIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups, Pl Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall! When the wind wakes how they rock in the

grasses,

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,

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O what anear but golden brooms!

And a waste of reedy rills; O what afar but the fine glooms

On the rare blue hills!

I shall not die, but live forlore

How bitter it is to part! O to meet thee, my love, once more!

O my heart, my heart!

No more to hear, no more to see!

O that an echo might awake And waft one note of thy psalm to me,

Ere my heart-strings break!

I should know it how faint soe'er,

And with angel voices blent; O once to feel thy spirit anear,

I could be content!

“O bonny brown sons, and 0 sweet little daughters,

May-be he thinks on you now!"

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall-
A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure,
And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and

thrall
Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its

measure,

God that is over us all!

SEVEN TIMES FIVE.-WIDOWHOOD.

SLEEP and rest, my heart makes moan,

Before I am well awake;
“Let me bleed! Oh, let me alone,

Since I must not break!"
For children wake, though fathers sleep,

With a stone at foot and at head;
O sleepless God! forever keep,

Keep both living and dead!

I lift mine eyes, and what to see,

But a world happy and fair;
I have not wished it to mourn with me,

Comfort is not there.

O once between the gates of gold,

While an angel entering trod; But once—thee sitting to behold

On the hills of God,

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A SONG OF A BOAT.

THERE was once a boat on a billow:

Lightly she rocked to her port remote, And the foam was white in her wake like

snow, And her frail mast bowed when the breeze

would blow, And bent like a wand of willow,

I pray you what is the nest to me,

My empty nest ?
And what is the shore where I stood to see

My boat sail down to the west ?
Can I call that home where I anchor yet,

Though my good man has sailed ?
Can I call that home where my nest was set,

Now all its hope hath failed ?
Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be:
There is the home where my thoughts are

sent, The only home for me—Ah, me!

JEAN INGELOW.

I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat

Went curtsying over the billow, I marked her course till a dancing mote She faded out on the moonlit foam, And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;

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