I met a little cottage girl:

She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cluster'd 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 look'd at me.

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

She answer'd, "Seven are we ;

And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea:

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the church-yard 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 church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"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 sunset, 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 play'd,
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!"

LVI.

THE BIBLE.

THIS book, this holy book, on every line
Mark'd with the seal of high divinity,

On every
leaf bedew'd with drops of love
Divine, and with the eternal heraldry
And signature of God Almighty stamp'd
From first to last, this ray of sacred light,
This lamp, from off the everlasting throne,
Mercy brought down, and in the night of Time
Stands, casting on the dark her gracious bow,
And evermore beseeching men with tears
And earnest sighs to read, believe, and live.

LVII.

THE HAPPY MAN.

He's not the happy man, to whom is given
A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven;
Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise,
And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes:
Whose table flows with hospitable cheer,
And all the various bounty of the year;

Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe the spring,

Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing; For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines, While his full cellars give their generous wines; From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn pours A golden tide into his swelling stores:

Whose Winter laughs; for whom the liberal gales Stretch the big sheet, and toiling Commerce sails; When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves; While youth, and health, and vigour, string his

nerves.

Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combined,

Can make the Happy Man, without the Mind;