A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled,
Where yet no leaf expands,

Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,-
A baby's hands.

Then, even as warriors grip their brands

When battle's bolt is hurled,

They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rose-buds yet by dawn impearled

Match, even in loveliest lands,
The sweetest flowers in all the world,-
A baby's hands.

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,
Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win
A baby's eyes.

Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies,
And sleep flows out and in,

Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin,
Their speech make dumb the wise,

By mute glad godhead felt within

A baby's eyes.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

We Are Seven

-A simple child,

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."

The Inglenook

The

Inglenook

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

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.

"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,

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!"

'Twas throwing words away: for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The Inglenook