There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear,

Of each glad-hearted rover.

Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,
In the blue Midsummer weather,
Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,
I catch them all together:
Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with the scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,

And off through the orchard closes; While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, They scamper and drop their posies; But dear little Kate takes naught amiss, And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, And I give her all my roses.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

CHILDHOOD.

IN my poor mind it is most sweet to muse
Upon the days gone by; to act in thought
Past seasons o'er, and be again a child;
To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope,

Down which the child would roll; to pluck gay flowers,

Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled),
Would throw away, and straight take up again,
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn
Bound with so playful and so light a foot,
That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head.

CHARLES LAMB.

THE MOTHER'S SACRIFICE.

THE cold winds swept the mountain's height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And mid the cheerless hours of night

A mother wandered with her child:
As through the drifting snow she pressed,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,

And deeper grew the drifting snow :

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone.

"O God!" she cried in accents wild,
"If I must perish, save my child!"

She stripped her mantle from her breast,
And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapped the vest,

And smiled to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon her snowy bed.

At dawn a traveller passed by,

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil; The frost of death was in her eye,

Her cheek was cold and hard and pale. He moved the robe from off the child, The babe looked up and sweetly smiled!

My birthday lessons are done.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother;

They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing And shining so round and low.

Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea,

is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

You Moon! have you done something wrong in heaven,

That God has hidden your face?

I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, And shine again in your place.

O velvet Bee! you 're a dusty fellow,

You've powdered your legs with gold.
O brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!

O Columbine open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell!

O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest, with the young ones in it,

I will not steal them away;

I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet!

I am seven times one to-day.

WE ARE SEVEN.

JEAN INGELOW.

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

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 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.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep; In the lap of that old dim forest He lieth in peace asleep :

Light as the down of the thistle,

Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,

The summers of long ago;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother

A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face;
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall, The one of the dim old forest Seemeth the best of all.

ALICE CARY.

THOMAS WESTWOOD.