Yet, tarry not! the gentle spring
Hath strew'd the earth with flowers;
And beauty flung o'er everything,

In this bright world of ours.

C. PHILLIPS.

THE POND AND THE BROOK.

"NEIGHBOUR Brook," said the Pond one day, "Why do you flow so fast away?

Sultry June is hastening on,

And then your water will all be gone."

"Nay, my friend," the Brook replied,

"Do not thus my conduct chide ; Shall I rather hoard than give ? Better die than useless live.

Summer came, and blazing June
Dried the selfish Pond full soon,
Not a single trace was seen
Where it had so lately been.

But the Brook with vigour flowed
Swift along its pebbly road
And the fragrant flowers around,
Loved to hear its happy sound

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 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.

"And where are they? I pray you tell,"

She answerd. "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, ye are only five."

Then

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied,

[door,

"Twelve steps or more from my Mother's And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchiefs there I hem:
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

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 !"

WORDSWORTH.

THE WHITE DOVE.

THERE sitteth a dove so white and fair,
All on the lily spray;

And she listeneth when to our Saviour dear,
The little children pray.

Lightly she spreads her friendly wings,
And to heaven's gate hath sped;

And unto the Father in Heaven she bears,
The prayers that the children have said.