"And where are they? I pray you tell." "Two of us in the churchyard lie, Dwell near them, with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, If two are in the churchyard laid, "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, "And often after sunset, sir, "The first that died was little Jane; Till God released her of her pain, "So in the churchyard she was laid; 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 ?" The little maiden did reply, "O master, we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! 'Twas throwing words away; for still OUR IMMORTALITY Intimations of Immortality from recollections of early childhood. The Child is Father of the Man; Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Youth, who daily farther from the east Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; The homely nurse doth all she can 1"In the mighty effort of his imagination- | the most impenetrable of all mysteries,-the the greatest ode in the English language,-the Ode on the Intimations of Immortality, dwelling upon the heavenly innocence of childhood,-a feeling in harmony with the Savior's words; and then, raising the human soul above its material life, he has cast a ray of poetry upon origin of the soul before its lodgment in the body. Thus sublimely asserting our immortality, he heeds this earth as no more than ministering to the spirit that has wandered from some better home into this mortal life:"Our birth," &c.-HENRY REED. That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, O joy! that in our embers The thought of our past years in me doth breed For that which is most worthy to be blest; Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those first affections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy ! Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither, And see the children sport upon the shore, THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. The world is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! The winds that will be howling at all hours, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, SCORN NOT THE SONNET. Scorn not the Sonnet: Critic, you have frown'd, To struggle through dark ways; and, when a darup Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew MILTON. Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour; Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; TO THOMAS CLARKSON, On the finaL PASSING Of the bill Clarkson it was an obstinate hill to climb: Hast heard the constant voice its charge repeat, Is won, and by all nations shall be worn! And thou henceforth shalt have a good man's calm, A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find Repose at length, firm friend of human kind! WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, 1762-1850. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, son of the Rev. William T. Bowles, vicar of King'sSutton, Northamptonshire, was born at that place on the 25th of September, 1762. In 1776 he was placed on the Wykeham foundation at Winchester,1 under Dr. Joseph Warton. Naturally a timid, diffident boy, he ever expressed a grateful obligation to the kind encouragement he received from that eminent man, who sympathized very cordially with any manifestation of poetic talents. During his last year at Winchester, he was at the head of the school, and in consequence of this distinction he was elected, in 1781, a scholar of Trinity College, Oxford. In 1783 he gained the chancellor's prize for Latin verse, the subject being Calpe Obsessa, The Siege of Gibraltar. In 1789 he published twenty of his beautiful sonnets, which were followed in the same year by Verses to John Howard, and in 1790 by The Grave of Howard. These and other poetical works were collected in 1796, and so well were they received that repeated editions were published. In 1797 he was married to Magdalen, daughter of the Rev. Charles Wake, prebendary of Westminster. She died some years before him, leaving no children. Having entered the ministry, he obtained the vicarage of Bremhill3 in 1805, which was his constant residence for forty years, during which long period he had watched zealously 1 Winchester, about sixty-seven miles southwest from London, is one of the oldest cities of England. It became the capital of the country when it was united under the sway of Egbert. Here lie the bones of Alfred the Great; here, in 1002, commenced the horrid massacre of the Danes; here William the Conqueror built a castle and palace; here King John ratified his ignominious submission to the Pope; and here was the scene of the disgraceful trial of Sir Walter Raleigh. Indeed, it is full of memorable historic associations. The most interesting building here is Wyke- 3 A town in Wiltshire, about seventy-seven miles west from London. |