"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 church-yard she was laid,

"And all the summer dry,

"Together round her grave we played,

"And when the ground was white with snow,

"And I could run and slide,

"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!"

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING,

I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through ine ran ;
And much it griev'd my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd :
Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made,

It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air ;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

THE

THORN.

I.

There is a thorn; it looks so old,
In truth you'd find it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.

Not higher than a two-years' child,
It stands erect this aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.

It stands erect, and like a stone

With lichens it is overgrown,