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"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard 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 sun-set, 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 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?"
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!"

MOORE.

Mutability of Love.

ALAS-how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love!
Hearts that the world in vain has tried,

And sorrow but more closely tied ;

That stood the storm, when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off,

Like ships, that have gone down at sea,
When heaven was all tranquility!
A something light as air-a look,

A word unkind or wrongly taken-
Oh! love, that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this has shaken.
And ruder words will soon rush in

To spread the breach that words begin;
And eyes forget the gentle ray
They wore in courtship's smiling day;
And voices lose the tone that shed
A tenderness round all they said;
Till fast declining, one by one,
The sweetnesses of love are gone,
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem
Like broken clouds,-or like the stream,
That smiling left the mountain's brow,
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Yet, ere it reach the plains below,

Breaks into floods, that part for ever!
Oh you, that have the charge of Love,
Keep him in rosy bondage bound,
As in the Fields of Bliss above

He sits, with flowerets fetter'd round :-
Loose not a tie that round him clings,
Nor ever let him use his wings;
For even an hour, a minute's flight
Will rob the plumes of half their light.
Like that celestial bird,-whose nest
Is found below far Eastern skies,-
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,
Lose all their glory when he flies!

Some difference, of this dangerous kind,
By which, though light, the links that bind
The fondest hearts may soon be riven;
Some shadow in love's summer heaven,
Which, though a fleecy speck at first,
May yet in awful thunder burst.

Chuse Eu'ning Bells.

Those ev'ning bells, those ev'ning bells,
How many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are past away,
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those ev'ning bells.

And so 'twill be, when I am gone
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet ev'ning bells!

In the Morning of Life.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds us is all from within; Oh, it is not, believe me, in that happy time

We can love, as in hours of less transport we

may;

Of our smiles, of our hopes 'tis the gay sunny prime, But affection is warmest when these fade away.

When we see the first glory of youth pass us by, Like a leaf on the stream that will never return; When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,

First tastes of the other, the dark flowing urn; Then, then is the moment affection can sway

With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew; Love, nurs'd among pleasures, is faithless as they, But the Love, born of Sorrow, like Sorrow is true!

In climes full of sunshine, tho' splendid their dyes, Yet faint is the odour the flow'rs shed about; "Tis the clouds and the mists of our own weeping skies,

That call the full spirit of fragrancy out.

So the wild glow of passion may kindle from mirth, But 'tis only in grief true affection appears ;And, ev'n tho' to smiles it may first owe its birth, All the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears!

Beaven.

Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall;
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of Heaven is worth them

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