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

Yet you 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 you 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—
I sit and sing 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 little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God releas'd her of her pain,
And then she went away..

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And all the summer 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 forc'd 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."

WORDSWORTH.

HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR.

Он, thou didst die for me, thou Son of God! By thee the throbbing flesh of man was worn; Thy naked feet the thorns of sorrow trod, And tempests beat thy houseless head forlorn. Thou, that wert wont to stand

Alone, on God's right hand,

Before the ages were, the Eternal, eldest born.

Thy birthright in the world was pain and grief,

Thy love's return ingratitude and hate;

The limbs thou healedst brought thee no relief,

The eyes thou openedst calmly view'd thy fate:

Thou, that wert wont to dwell

In peace no tongue can tell,

Nor heart conceive the bliss of thy celestial state.

They dragg'd thee to the Roman's solemn hall,

Where the proud judge in purple splendour sate;

Thou stood'st a meek and patient criminal, Thy doom of death from human lips to wait;

Whose throne shall be the world

In final ruin hurl'd,

With all mankind to hear their everlasting fate.

Thou wert alone in that fierce multitude, When "Crucify him!" yell'd the general

shout:

No hand to guard thee 'mid those insults rude,

Nor lips to bless thee in that frantic rout; Whose lightest whisper'd word

The seraphim had heard,

And adamantine arms from all the heavens

broke out.

They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn,

Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain;

The blood from all thy flesh with scourges

torn,

Deepen'd thy robe of mockery's crimson grain ;

Whose native vesture bright

Was the unapproached light,

The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane.

They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm,

With the cold spear thy shuddering side they pierc'd;

The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm They gave, t'enhance thy unslak'd, burning thirst:

Thou, at whose words of peace

Did pain and anguish cease,

And the long-buried dead their bonds of slumber burst.

Low bow'd thy head convuls'd, and droop'd in death,

Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry; Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath,

And every limb was wrung with agony:
That head, whose veil-less blaze

Fill'd angels with amaze,

When at that voice sprang forth the rolling suns on high.

And thou wert laid within the narrow tomb, Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding graveclothes bound;

The sealed stone confirm'd thy mortal doom, Lone watchmen walk'd thy desert burialground,

Whom heaven could not contain,

Nor the immeasurable plain

Of vast infinity enclose or circle round.

For us, for us, thou didst endure the pain,

And thy meek spirit bow'd itself to shame, To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain, T'avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame:

Thou, that could'st nothing win
By saving worlds from sin,

Nor aught of glory add to thy all-glorious

name.

MILMAN.

"PEACE, BE STILL."

(FOUNDED ON FACT.)

SHE was a beautiful and lovely chiid,
Full of affection, gentle, pure, and mild:
One of those joyous spirits who might seem
The bright creation of a poet's dream.
Her happy face, and bright engaging smile,
Would oft our anxious hearts of care beguile;
Νο
angry, fretful passions ever rose
To cast a shadow o'er her sweet repose;