WE ARE SEVEN.

A SIMPLE child

That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old she said;
Her hair was thick with many a cur!
That cluster'd round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering look'd at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answer'd, "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 lic,
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 scor,"

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 released 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 1.

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,

"O 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 !"

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS;

SHOWING HOW THE PRACTICE OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT,

I HAVE a boy of five years old;

His face is fair and fresh to see;

His limbs are cast in beauty's mould,

And dearly he loves me.

One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk,
Our quiet home all full in view,
And held such intermitted talk
As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;
I thought of Kilve's delightful shore,
Our pleasant home when spring began,
A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear

To think-and think-and think again;
With so much happiness to spare,
I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim
And graceful in his rustic dress!
And oftentimes I talk'd to him,
In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race

The morning sun shone bright and warm ;

"Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place,
And so is Liswyn farm.

My little boy, which like you more,'
I said, and took him by the arm-
"Our home by Kilve's delightful shore,
Or here at Liswyn farm?

And tell me, had you rather be,"
I said, and held him by the arm,

"At Kilve's smooth shore by the green sea,
Or here at Liswyn farm?"

In careless mood he look'd at me,
While still I held him by the arm,
And said, "At Kilve I'd rather be
Than here at Liswyn farm."
"Now, little Edward, say why so:
My little Edward, tell me why?"-
"I cannot tell, I do not know."
"Why this is strange," said I;

"For, here are woods, and green hills warm:
There surely must some reason be

Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm
For Kilve by the green sea."

At this, my boy hung down his head,

He blush'd with shame, nor made reply;
And five times to the child I said,
"" Why, Edward, tell me why?"

His head he raised-there was in sight,
It caught his eye, he saw it plain-
Upon the house-top, glittering bright,
A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock;
And thus to me he made reply:
"At Kilve there was no weathercock,
And that's the reason why."

O dearest, dearest boy! my heart
For better lore would seldom yearn,
Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn.

RURAL ARCHITECTURE.

THERE'S George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald Shore,
Three rosy-cheek'd schoolboys, the highest not more

Than the height of a counsellor's bag;

To the top of GREAT HOW* did it please them to climb;
And there they built up, without mortar or lime,

A man on the peak of the crag.

• GREAT HOW is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirlmere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside.

They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay;
They built him and christen'd him all in one day,
An urchin both vigorous and hale;

And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones.
Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones;
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after, the wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the north
Coming on with a terrible pother,

From the peak of the crag blew the giant away.
And what did these schoolboys?-The very next day
They went and they built up another.

THE dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink;
I heard a voice: said, "Drink, pretty creature, drink!"
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied

A snow-white mountain lamb, with a maiden at its sido.
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was tether'd to a stone;
With one knee on the grass did the little maiden kneel,
While to that mountain lamb she gave its evening meal.
The lamb, while from her hand he thus his supper took,
Seem'd to feast with head and ears; and his tail with pleasure shook.
"Drink, pretty creature, drink," she said in such a tone,
That I almost received her heart into my own.

'Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of beauty rare!
I watch'd them with delight; they were a lovely pair.
Now with her empty can, the maiden turn'd away;
But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did she stay.
Towards the lamb she look'd; and from that shady place
I, unobserved, could see the workings of her face;

If Nature to her tongue could measured numbers bring,
Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid 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?
"What is it thou wouldst seek? What is wanting to thy heart?
Thy limbs are they not strong? And beautiful thou art:
This grass is tender grass; these flowers they have no peers;
And that green corn, all day, is rustling in thy ears!

"If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy woollen chain,
This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst gain;

For rain and mountain storms, the like thou need'st not fear ;The rain and storm are things which scarcely can come here.

"Hest, little young one, rest; thou hast forgot the day
When my father found thee first in places far away:
Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert own'd by none;
And thy mother from thy side for evermore was gone.

"He took thee in his arms, and in pity brought thee home:
A blessed day for thee! then whither wouldst thou roam ?
A faithful nurse thou hast; the dam that did thee yean
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have been.

"Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought thec in this can Fresh water from the brook, as clear as ever ran;

And twice in the day, when the ground is wet 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.
"It will not, will not rest!-poor creature, can it be
That 'tis thy mother's heart which is working so in thee?
Things that I know not of belike to thee are dear,

And dreams of things which thou canst neither see nor hear.

“ Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green and fair !
I've heard of fearful winds and darkness that come there;
The little brooks that seem all pastime and all play,
When they are angry, roar like lions for their prey.
"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 seem'd, 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 look'd with such a look, and she spake with such a tone, That I almost received her heart into my own."

THE IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS; OR, DUNGEON-GHYLL

FORCE.*

A PASTORAL.

I.

THE valley rings with mirth and joy;
Among the hills the echoes play

A never, never-ending song,

To welcome in the May:

Ghyll, in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland, is a short, and for the most part, a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for waterfall.