"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;

[door,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's

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 played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with And I could run and slide; [snow, 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, "Oh, master! we are seven."

"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!"

Wordsworth.

TO A SKYLARK.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong:

Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
Singing! Singing!

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a fairy,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine,

In that song of thine:

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning :
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors and dusty ways must
wind:

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness, and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures when Life's
day is done.

Wordsworth.

THE FEMALE VAGRANT.

My father was a good and pious man,
An honest man, by honest parents bred:.
And I believe that, soon as I began
To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my prayers I said;
And afterwards, by my good father taught,
I read, and loved the books in which I read :
For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure
brought.

Can I forget our croft and plot of corn, Our garden, stored with peas, and mint, and thyme ;

And rose, and lily, for the Sabbath morn?

The Sabbath bells, with their delightful chime; The gambols and wild freaks at shearing-time : My hen's rich nest, through long grass scarce espied :

The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime : The swans that, with white chests upheaved in pride,

Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water side?

The staff I yet remember which upbore
The bending body of my aged sire;

His seat beneath the honied sycamore,
Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter

fire:

When market morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked:

Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire
The stranger, till his barking-fit I checked:
The red-breast, known for years, which at my
casement pecked.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,Ah! little marked how fast they rolled away;