"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy!
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair—
Sorrow and death may not enter there:
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!

HE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.
BY MRS. HEMANS.

[It is recorded of Henry the First, that, after the death of his son Prince William, who perished in shipwreck off the coast of Normandy, he was never seen to smile.]

THE bark, that held a prince, went down,
The sweeping waves rolled on;

And what was England's glorious crown
To him that wept a son?

He lived-for life may long be borne
Ere sorrow break its chain;-

Why comes not death to those who mourn?
He never smiled again!

There stood proud forms before his throne,
The stately and the brave;

But which could fill the place of one,
That one beneath the wave?
Before him passed the young and fair,
In pleasure's reckless train;

But seas dashed o'er his son's bright hair-
He never smiled again!

He sat where festal bowls went round;
He heard the minstrel sing;

He saw the tournay's victor crowned,
Amidst the knightly ring:

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A murmur of the restless deep

Was blent with every strain,

A voice of winds that would not sleep-
He never smiled again!

Hearts, in that time, closed o'er the trace
Of vows once fondly poured,

And strangers took the kinsman's place
At many a joyous board.

Graves, which true love had bathed with tears,
Were left to heaven's bright rain,
Fresh hopes were born for other years-
He never smiled again!

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
BY MRS. HEMANS.

THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount and stream and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,
Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid;

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue, long sea hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.

· One sleeps where southern vines are dressed, Above the noble slain;

He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree:
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth;

Alas for love, if thou wert all
And naught beyond on earth!

WE ARE SEVEN.

BY WORDSWORTH.

A SIMPLE child, dear brother Jim,
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.

"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 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.

"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,

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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.'

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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, Master! we are seven!"

TO THE CUCKOO.

BY WORDSWORTH.

O BLYTHE new comer! I have heard,
I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird,
Or but a wandering voice?