THE DEAF.

THERE, beneath A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies, From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn The precious gift of hearing. He grew up From year to year in loneliness of soul; And this deep mountain valley was to him Soundless, with all its streams. The bird of dawn Did never rouse this cottager from sleep With startling summons; not for his delight The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him Murmured the laboring bee.

'Mid stormy winds, The agitated scene before his eye Was silent as a picture; evermore

Were all things silent, wheresoe'er he moved.
Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts
Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
Of rural labors; the steep mountain side
Ascended with his staff and faithful dog;
The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;
And the ripe corn before his sickle fell

Among the jocund reapers.

His books

Were ready comrades whom he could not tire;

Of whose society the blameless man

Was never satiate. Their familiar voice,
Even to old age, with unabated charm,

Beguiled his leisure hours, and bestowed
Upon his life an outward dignity,

Which all acknowledged. The dark winter night,
The stormy day, had each its own resource.
Thus soothed at home, thus busy in the field,
To no perverse suspicion he gave way,
No languor, peevishness, nor vain complaint,
And they who were about him did not fail
In reverence or in courtesy; they prized
His gentle manners ;—and his peaceful smiles,
The gleams of his slow-varying countenance,
Were met with answering sympathy and love.
At length, when sixty years and five were told,
A slow disease insensibly consumed

The powers of nature and a few short steps
Of friends and kindred bore him from his home
To the profounder stillness of the grave.
And now that monumental stone preserves
His name, and unambitiously relates
How long, and by what kindly outward aids,
And in what pure contentedness of mind,
The sad privation was by him endured.
And yon tall pine tree, whose composing sound
Was wasted on the good man's living ear,
Hath now its own peculiar sanctity;

And, at the touch of every wandering breeze,
Murmurs, not idly, o'er his peaceful grave.

WORDSWORTH.

ON A GIRL,

LEADING HER BLIND MOTHER THROUGH THE WOOD.*

THE green leaves, as we pass, Lay their light fingers on thee unaware, And by thy side the hazels cluster fair, And the low forest grass

Grows green and silken where the wood-paths wind; Alas for thee, dear mother! thou art blind!

The moon's new silver shell Trembles above thee, and the stars float up In the blue air, and the rich tulip's cup

Is pencilled passing well,

And the swift birds on glorious pinions flee ;-
Alas, sweet mother! that thou canst not see!

And the kind looks of friends
Peruse the sad expression in thy face,
And the child stops amid his bounding race,
And the tall stripling bends

Low to thine ear with duty unforgot ;-
Alas, sweet mother! that thou seest them not!

But thou canst hear; and love

May richly on a human tone be poured,
And the least cadence of a whispered word

A daughter's love may prove ; And while I speak thou knowest if I smile, Albeit thou canst not see my face the while.

Yes! thou canst hear, and He,
Who on thy sightless eye its darkness hung,
To the attentive ear, like harps, hath strung
Heaven and earth and sea;

And 'tis a lesson to our hearts to know
With but one sense the soul may overflow.

WE ARE SEVEN.*

I MET a little cottage girl;

She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with
many a
curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very
Her beauty made me glad.

66

WILLIS

fair

;

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 mother's door,

And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;