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 my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"The first that died was sister Jane ;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her from 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,

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,

"But they are dead; those two are dead; Their spirits are in heaven!"

"T was throwing words away; for still

The little maid would have her will;

And said, "Nay, we are seven!

William Wordsworth

THE CHILD-JUDGE.

"WHERE hast thou been toiling all day, sweetheart, That thy brow is burdened and sad?

The Master's work may make weary feet,
But it leaves the spirit glad.

"Was thy garden nipped with the midnight frost,
Or scorched with the midday glare?

Were thy vines laid low, or thy lilies crushed,

That thy face is so full of care?"

"No pleasant garden-toils were mine! -
I have sat on the judgment-seat,
Where the Master sits at eve and calls
The children around his feet."

"How camest thou on the judgment-seat, Sweetheart? who set thee there?

'Tis a lonely and lofty seat for thee, And well might fill thee with care."

"I climbed on the judgment-seat myself,
I have sat there alone all day;

For it grieved me to see the children around
Idling their life away.

They wasted the Master's precious seed,

They wasted the precious hours;

They trained not the vines, nor gathered the fruits, And they trampled the sweet, meek flowers."

"And what hast thou done on the judgment-seat,
Sweetheart? what didst thou there?
Would the idlers heed thy childish voice?
Did the garden mend by thy care?"

"Nay, that grieved me more! I called and I cried,

But they left me there forlorn.

My voice was weak, and they heeded not,
Or they laughed my words to scorn."

"Ah, the judgment-seat was not for thee,

The servants were not thine!

And the eyes which adjudge the praise and the blame

See further than thine or mine.

"The voice that shall sound at eve, sweetheart,
Will not raise its tones to be heard:

It will hush the earth and hush the hearts,
And none will resist its word."

"Should I see the Master's treasures lost,
The stores that should feed his poor,
And not lift my voice, be it weak as it may,
And not be grievèd sore?"

"Wait till the evening falls, sweetheart, Wait till the evening falls;

The Master is near and knoweth all,

Wait till the Master calls.

"But how fared thy garden-plot, sweetheart, Whilst thou sat'st on the judgment-seat? Who watered thy roses, and trained thy vines, And kept them from careless feet?"

"Nay, that is the saddest of all to me! That is the saddest of all!

My vines are trailing, my roses are parched, My lilies droop and fall."

"Go back to thy garden-plot, sweetheart, Go back till the evening falls!

And bind thy lilies, and train thy vines,

Till for thee the Master calls.

Go make thy garden fair as thou canst,
Thou workest never alone;

Perchance he whose plot is next to thine
Will see it, and mend his own.

"And the next may copy his, sweetheart,
Till all grows fair and sweet;
And when the Master comes at eve,
Happy faces his coming will greet.

"Then shall thy joy be full, sweetheart,
In the garden so fair to see,

In the Master's words of praise for all,
In a look of his own for thee."

AVIS.

I MAY not rightly call thy name, -
Alas! thy forehead never knew
The kiss that happier children claim,

Nor glistened with baptismal dew.