rchyard laid,
Then ye are only five.

Their graves are green, they may be seen,
The little maid replied,
Twelve steps or more from mother's door,
And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit.
My 'kerchief there I hem;

[Illustration: The Churchyard.]

And there upon the ground I sit--
sit and sing 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 little 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?
The little maiden did reply,
O master! we are seven.

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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

THE IDLE BOY

Thomas was an idle lad,
And loung'd about all day;
And though he many a lesson had.
He minded nought but play.

He only car'd for top or ball,
Or marbles, hoop or kite:
But as for learning, that was all
Neglected by him quite.

[Illustration: The Idle Boy.]

In vain his mothers kind advice
In vain his master's care;
He followed ev'ry idle vice,
And learnt to curse and swear!

And think you, when he grew a man,
He prospered in his ways?
No; wicked courses never can
Bring good and happy days.

Without a shilling in his purse,
Or cot to call his own,
Poor Thomas grew from bad to worse,
And harden'd as a stone.

[Illustration]

And oh, it grieves me much to write
His melancholy end;
Then let us leave the dreadful sight,
And thoughts of pity send.

But may we this important truth
Observe and ever hold:
"All those who're idle in their youth
Will suffer when they're old."

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

CASABIANCA

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled!
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud though childlik