He died,-this seat his only monument. If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms

Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,

Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,
Is littleness; that he, who feels con-

tempt

For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him

Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who
might move

The wise man to that scorn which wis
dom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to
love:

True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,

Can still suspect, and still revere himself,

In lowliness of heart.

1795. 1798.1

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 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,
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 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.”

An old Man dwells, a little man,-
Tis said he once was tall.

Full five and thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound.
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.

In those proud days. he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;

To blither tasks did Simon rouse

The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind:
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out, He dearly loves their voices!

But, oh the heavy change!-bereft

Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!

Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.

His Master's dead,-and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick ;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick ;
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not twenty paces from the door.
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Kith does what Simon cannot do ;
For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.

And, though you with your utmost skill
From labor could not wean them,