"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."

"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!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN,

BY ROBERT SOUTHEY.

WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly

fixed eyes

Seem a heart overcharged to express ?

She weeps not, yet often and deeply she

sighs;

She never complains but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek ; Cold and hunger awake not her care; Through her rags do the winds of the winter

blow bleak

On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek

Has the deathly pale hue of despair

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the maniac has been.

The traveller remembers, who journeyed

this way

No damsel so lovely, no damsel as gay,
As Mary the maid of the inn

Her cheerful address filled her guests with delight

As she welcomed them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the abbey at night,

When the wind whistled down the dark

aisle.

She loved; and young Richard had settled the day,

And she hoped to be happy for life;

But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary and

say

That she was too good for his wife.

'Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,

And fast were the windows and door;

Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt

bright,

And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight They listened to hear the wind roar.

“

""Tis pleasant," cried one, seated by the

fireside,

To hear the wind whistle without."