“ My stockings there I often knit,

My 'kerchief there I hem,
“ And there upon the ground I sit,

I sit and sing to them ;
“ And often after supper, sir,

“ When it is light and fair,
“ I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper.

there.
s6 The first that died was little Jane,

“ In bed she moaning lay,
“ 'Till God released her of her pain,

“ And then she went away.
“ So in the church-yard she was laid,

“ And, all the summer day,
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.
“How many are you then, said I,

“ If they two are in heaven?” The little maiden did 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.”

THE THREE WARNINGS.Mrs. Thrale.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the gound;

'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years, So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,

The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round and all were gay, On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room; And looking grave-- You must,” says he, “Quit your sweet bride, and come with me!" “ With you! and quit my Susan's side! “ With you!" the hapless husband cried :

Young as I am! 'tis monstrous hard! “ Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:

My thoughts on other matters go, “ This is my wedding-day, you know.” What more he urged I have not heard,

His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spar'd,

And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke

Neighbour,” he said, “ farewell ! no more “ Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; “ And farther, to avoid all blame “ Of cruelty upon my name, “ To give you time for preparation, “ And fit you for your future station, “ Three several warnings you shall have “ Before you're summoned to the grave. “ Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

“ And grant a kind reprieve;

“ In hopes you'll have no more to say,
“ But when I call again this way,

“ Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befel,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,

The willing muse shall tell.
He chaffered then; he bought and sold;
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of death as near :
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now one night, in musing mood,

As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of fate Once more before him stood. Half killed with anger and surprise, “ So soon returned ?" old Dobson cries : “ So soon d'ye call it !" Death replies :

Surely, my friend, you're but in jest !

“ Since I was here before “ 'Tis six-and-forty years at least,

“ And you are now fourscore !" “ So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd, “To spare the aged would be kind; “ Beside, you promised me Three Warnings “Which I have looked for nights and mornings." “I know," cries Death," that at the best,

“I seldom am a welcome guest; “ But don't be captious, friend, at least :“ I little thought you'd still be able “ To stump about your farm and stable : “ Your ears have run to a great length : “ I wish you joy, though, of your strength!” “Hold,” says the farmer, " not so fast ! “ I have been lame these four years past.' “ And no great wonder," Death replies; “ However, you still keep your eyes ; “ And sure to see one's loves and friends “For legs and arms must make amends." “Perhaps,” says Dobson, “ so it might, “But latterly I've lost my sight!" “ This is a shocking tale, 'tis true, “ But still there's comfort left for you ; “ Each strives your sadness to amuse, “ I warrant you

hear all the news.” “ There's none,” cries he,

- and if there were, “ I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.” Nay, then,” the spectre stern rejoined,

These are unjustifiable yearnings;' “ If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

“ You've had your three sufficient warnings ; “ So come along! no more we'll part.” He said ; and touched him with his dart : And now old Dobson, turning pale, Yields to his fate!--So ends my tale.

EXTRACTS

FROM SOME OF

OUR MOST ADMIRED POETS.

SPENSER FROM AN HYMN OF HEAVENLY LOVE. O Thou most blessed Spirit, pure lampe of light,

Eternal spring of grace and wisdome true,
Vouchsafe to shed into my barren spright

Some little drop of thy celestial dew,
That may my rimes with sweet infuse embrew,

And give me words equall unto my thought,

To tell the marveiles by thy mercy wrought. Rouze, lift thyself, O earth, out of thy soyle,

In which thou wallow'st like to filthy swine,
And doost thy mind in durty pleasures moyle,

Unmindful of that dearest LORD of thine ;
Lift up to Him thy heavy clouded eyne,

That thou His soveraigne bounty maist behold,

And read through love His mercies manifold. Begin from first where He encradled was

In simple cratch, wrapt in a wad of hay,
Between the toylefull oxe and humble asse,
And in what rags, and in how base array
The glory of our heavenly riches lay,

When Him the silly shepheards came to see,
Whom greatest princes sought on lowest knee.