That God has hidden your face?

with dew,

I bring thee draughts of milk, warm milk it is, and new.

"Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as they are now;

Then I'll yoke thee to my cart like a pony in the plough. My playmate thou shalt be; and when the wind is cold,

Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall be thy fold.

"Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the sky;

Night and day thou art safe, our cottage is hard by.

Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy chain? Sleep, and at break of day I will come to thee again!"

As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,

This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat; And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,

That but half of it was hers, and one half of it

was mine.

Again, and once again, did I repeat the song; "Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel

must belong,

For she looked with such a look, and she spake with such a tone,

That I almost received her heart into my own."

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

And shine again in your place.

"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."

"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."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply : "O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!"

'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven !"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

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.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,
When life and hope were new;
Kind playmate of thy brother,
Thy sister, father too;

My light, where'er I go;
My bird, when prison-bound;
My hand-in-hand companion - No,
My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say, "He has departed" "His voice" "his face To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on, Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so.

"

is gone,

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.