l quietly take
To sleep in the house of their birth,
But the carnadined wave of five shall break
On the uttermost strands of earth.

Five rivers of France--see! their names are writ
On a banner of crimson and gold,
And the glory of those who fashioned it
Shall nevermore cease to be told.

_H.J.M., in London "Times."_

Seven Times One

There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven;
I've said my "seven times" over and over:
Seven times one are seven.

I am old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better,
They are only one times one.

O Moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright! but your light 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'll 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 Marshmary 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.

_Jean Ingelow._

Seven Times Two

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,
How many soever they be,
And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges,
Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling
No magical sense conveys,
And bells have forgotten their old art of telling
The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily.
While a boy listened alone;
Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily
All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over,
And mine, they are yet to be;
No listening, no longing shall aught, aught discover:
You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,
Preparing her hoods of snow:
She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
Oh, children take long to grow.

I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer bide so late;
And I could