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-

I sit and sing to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,

When it is light and fair,

WE ARE SEVEN.

111

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!"

WORDSWORTH.

FATHER IS COMING.

THE clock is on the stroke of six,
The father's work is done;

Sweep up the hearth, and stir the fire,
And put the kettle on.

The wild night wind is blowing cold, 'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold.

He's crossing o'er the wold apace,
He is stronger than the storm;
He does not feel the cold, not he,
His heart it is so warm:

For father's heart is stout and true,
As ever human bosom knew.

He makes all toil, all hardship light:

Would all men were the same:

So ready to be pleased, so kind,
So very slow to blame!

Folks need not be unkind, austere,
For love hath readier will than fear.

Nay, do not close the shutters, child;

For far along the lane

The little window looks, and he

Can see it shining plain.

FATHER IS COMING.

I've heard him say he loves to mark
The cheerful fire-light through the dark.

And we 'll do all that father likes;

His wishes are so few; Would they were more! that

Some wish of his I knew:

I'm sure it makes a happy day,
When I can please him any way.

every

I know he's coming by this sign,
That baby's almost wild;

hour

See how he laughs, and crows, and stares—
Heaven bless the merry child!

His father's self in face and limb

And father's heart is strong in him.

Hark! hark! I hear his footstep now;

He's through the garden gate; Run, little Bess, and ope the door,

And do not let him wait:

Shout, baby, shout! and clap your hands,
For father on the threshold stands.

113

MARY HOWITT.

TRY, TRY AGAIN.

"T is a lesson you should heed-
Try, try again;

If at first you do n't succeed,
Try, try again;

Then your courage should
For, if you will persevere,

appear,

You will conquer, never fear:
Try, try again.

Once, or twice, though you should fail,
Try, try again;

If you would, at last, prevail,

Try, try again;

If we strive, 't is no disgrace,

Though we may not win the race;

What should you do in the case?
Try, try again.

If you find your task is hard,
Try, try again;

Time will bring you your reward;

Try, try again;

All that other folks can do,

Why, with patience, should not you?

Only keep this rule in view

TRY, TRY AGAIN.