Now with her empty can the maiden turned away; But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.

Right towards the lamb she looked; and from a shady place

I unobserved could see the workings of her face. If nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,

SEVEN TIMES ONE.

THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven.
I've said my "seven times" over and over,
Seven times one are seven.

I am old, - so old I can write a letter; My birthday lessons are done.

might sing:

"What ails thee, young one?-what? Why

pull so at thy cord?

Is it not well with thee?-well both for bed and board?

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass can be ; Rest, little young one, rest; what is 't that aileth thee?

"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought

thee in this can

They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low.

You were bright—ah, bright - but your light is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

with dew,

"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we ;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

"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:

"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, 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 snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

TO A CHILD, DURING SICKNESS.
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,
My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee
Smooths off the day's annoy.

I sit me down, and think
Of all thy winning ways;

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,
That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness;
Thy thanks to all that aid;
Thy heart, in pain and weakness,
Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand
That wipes thy quiet tears, -

These, these are things that may demand
Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I've had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;
And calmly, midst my dear ones,
Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press
And pat my stooping head,
I cannot bear the gentleness,
The tears are in their bed.

O, THOSE little, those little blue shoes!
Those shoes that no little feet use.

O the price were high

That those shoes would buy,
Those little blue unused shoes!

For they hold the small shape of feet
That no more their mother's eyes meet,
That, by God's good will,
Years since, grew still,

And ceased from their totter so sweet.

And O, since that baby slept,

So hushed, how the mother has kept,
With a tearful pleasure,

That little dear treasure,
And o'er them thought and wept !

For they mind her forevermore
Of a patter along the floor;

And blue eyes she sees

Look up from her knees

With the look that in life they wore.

As they lie before her there,
There babbles from chair to chair

A little sweet face

That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair.
Then O 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.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

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.

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
Lodged 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.

ALICE CARY.

THE PET NAME.

"The name

Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress."
MISS MITFORD'S Dramatic Scenes.

I HAVE a name, a little name,

Uncadenced for the ear, Unhonored by ancestral claim, Unsanctified by prayer and psalm The solemn font anear.

It never did, to pages wove For gay romance, belong. It never dedicate did move As "Sacharissa," unto love, "Orinda," unto song.

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.

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.

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.

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss,
My sisters' woodland glee,
My father's praise I did not miss,
When, stooping down, he cared to kiss
The poet at his knee,

And voices which, to name me, aye Their tenderest tones were keeping,

To some I nevermore can say

An answer, till God wipes away

In heaven these drops of weeping.

My name to me a sadness wears;

No murmurs cross my mind.

Now God be thanked for these thick tears, Which show, of those departed years,

Sweet memories left behind.

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.

Earth saddens, never shall remove,
Affections purely given;

And e'en that mortal grief shall prove
The immortality of love,

And heighten it with Heaven.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine, thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child; chase all thy fears
away!"

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize, -
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bid'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, — not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers- Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away; And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such? It was. - Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return; What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived, By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

-

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap, "T is now become a history little known That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes, less deeply traced : Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed,

All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may,
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the
hours

Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart, - the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no,
what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou -as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile;
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the
shore

"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar";