FROM THE CONCLUSION OF A POEM, COMPOSED IN ANTICIPATION OF LEAVING SCHOOL.

DEAR native regions, I foretell,

From what I feel at this farewell,

That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,

And whensoe'er my course shall end,

If in that hour a single tie

Survive of local sympathy,

My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.

Thus, while the sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regions of the west,
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memorial gleam,

A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.

WRITTEN IN VERY EARLY YOUTH.

CALM is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal :

Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky..
Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
O, leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again!

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years :
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

"T is a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

'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 curl
That clustered 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 looked at me.

39

10

'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 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,

And sing a song to them.

40

'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 !'

50

ба