SEBA SMITH.

MATERNITY.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, “O God !" she cried in accents wild,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, "If I must perish, save my child !”
And Kate with her scarlet feather.

She stripped her mantle from her breast, Under my window, under my window,

And bared her bosom to the storm, Leaning stealthily over,

And round the child she wrapped the vest, Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

And smiled to think her babe was warm. Of each glad-hearted rover.

With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; And sunk upon her snowy bed.
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.

At dawn a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; Under my window, under my window,

The frost of death was in her eye, In the blue Midsummer weather,

Her cheek was cold and hard and pale. Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

He moved the robe from off the child, I catch them all together :

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled! Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with the scarlet feather.

SEVEN TIMES FOUR.
Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes;
While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, HEIGH-HO! daisies and buttercups,
They scamper and drop their posies;

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall !
But dear little Kate takes naught amiss,

When the wind wakes, how they rock in the And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,

grasses, And I give her all my roses.

And dance with the cuckoo-buds slender and

small ! Here's two bonny boys, and here's mother's

own lasses,
CHILDHOOD.

Eager to gather them all.
In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups !
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ;

Mother shall thread them a daisy chain ; To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,

Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow, Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay

That loved her brown little ones, loved them

full fain ; flowers, Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand Sing, “ Heart, thou art wide, though the house (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled),

be but narrow," Would throw away, and straight take up again,

Sing once,

and sing it again. Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot,

Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.

Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they

bow; CHARLES LAMB.

A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,

And haply one musing doth stand at her prow'. THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE. O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughi

ters, The cold winds swept the mountain's height,

Maybe he thinks on you now!
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And mid the cheerless hours of night

Heigh-ho! daisies and buttercups,
A mother wandered with her child :

Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall As through the drifting snow she pressed, A sunshiny world full of laughter and leisure, The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow and

thrall ! And colder still the winds did blow,

Send down on their pleasure smiles passing its And darker hours of night came on,

measure, And deeper grew the drifting snow :

God that is over us all! Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone.

JEAN INGELOW.

BOYHOOD.

I met a little cottage girl :
Ah, then how sweetly closed those crowded days ! Her hair was thick with many a curl

She was eight years old, she said ;
The minutes parting one by one,

like
rays

That clustered round her head.
That fade upon a summer's eve.
But 0, what charm or magic numbers

She had a rustic, woodland air,
Can give me back the gentle slumbers

And she was wildly clad ; Those weary, happy days did leave ?

Her eyes were fair, and very fair ;
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel,

Her beauty made me glad.
And with her blessing took her nightly kiss ;
Whatever time destroys, he cannot this ;-

“Sisters and brothers, little maid, E'en now that nameless kiss I feel.

How many may you be ?"
“How many ? Seven in all,” she said,

And wondering looked at me.
SEVEN TIMES ONE.
THERE's no dew left on the daisies and clover,

“And where are they? I pray you tell." There's no rain left in heaven.

She answered, “Seven are we; I've said my seven times" over and over,

And two of us at Conway dwell, Seven times one are seven.

And two are gone to sea;

WASHINGTON ALLSTON.

I am old, - se old I can write a letter ;

“Two of us in the churchyard lie, My birthday lessons are done.

My sister and my brother ;
The lambs play always, they know no better ; And, in the churchyard cottage, I
They are only one times one.

Dwell near them with my mother."

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing “You say that two at Conway dwell,
And shining so round and low.

And two are gone to sea,
You were bright - ah, bright — but your light Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
is failing;

Sweet maid, how this may be." You are nothing now but a bow.

Then did the little maid reply, You Moon ! have you done something wrong in “Seven boys and girls are we; heaven,

Two of us in the churchyard lie
That God has hidden your face?

Beneath the churchyard tree.”
I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.

“You run about, my little maid ;

Your limbs they are alive ;
O velvet Bee! you 're a dusty fellow, –

If two are in the churchyard laid,
You've powdered your legs with gold.

Then ye are only five."
O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold !

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

The little maid replied : O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!

And they are side by side.
O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your

clear
green
bell !

“My stockings there I often knit, And show me your nest, with the young ones in

My kerchief there I hem ;

And there upon the ground I sit,
it,
I will not steal them away ;

And sing a song to them.
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet!

“And often after sunset, sir,
I am seven times one to-day.

When it is light and fair,
JEAN INGELOW.

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.
WE ARE SEVEN.
A SIMPLE child,

“ The first that died was Sister Jane ;
That lightly draws its breath,

In bed she moaning lay,
And feels its life in every limb,

Till God released her of her pain ;
What should it know of death ?

And then she went away.