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That cottage which, with chastest hand,
Simplicity and taste have planned.
"Happy who, grosser cares resigned,
Content with books to feed her mind,
Can leave life's luxuries behind;
Content, within this humble cell,
With peace and temperance to dwell,
Her food the fruits-her drink the well-
'Twas thus of old”—but as I spoke,
Before my eyes what dainties smoke!
Not such as crcmites of old,
In many a holy tale enrolled, -
Drawing from out their frugal hoard,
With nuts and apples spread the board;
But such, as fit for paunch divine,
Might tempt a modern saint to dine.
Then thus, perceiving my surprise,
Which stared confessed through both my eyes,
To vindicate her wiser plan,
The fair philosopher began-
Young gentleman, no doubt you think,"
And here she paused awhile to drink,
“All that you've said is mighty fine-
But won't you taste a glass of wine ?
You think these cates are somewhat curious,
And, for a hermit, too luxurious;
But such old fograms, Lord preserve us!
Knew no such thing as being nervous;
Else had they found that, when oppressed,
Confused, elated, warmed, distressed,
Body and mind keep cqual measure,
In sympathy of pain or pleasure.
Sorrow's, indeed, beyond all question,
The best specific for digestion;
WRITTEN IN MRS. CREWE'S SCRAP-BOOK.
Which, when with moderate force it rages,
A chicken, or a chop, assuages.
But, to support some weightier grief,
Grant me, ye gods, a round of beef!
Thus, then, since abstract speculation
Must set the nerves in agitation,
Absurd the plan, with books and study
To feed the mind-yet starve the body.
These are my tenets, and in me
Practice and principle agree.
See, then, beneath this roof combined
Food for the body and the mind.
A couplet here, and there a custard,
While sentiment by turns, and mustard,
Bedew with tears the glistening eye.
Behold me now with Otway sigh,
Now revelling in pigeon pie;
And now, in apt transition, taken
From Bacon's works—to eggs and bacon."
Dear Mrs. Crewe, this wondrous knowledge,
I own, I ne'er had gained at college.
You are my tut'ress; would you quite
Confirm your wavering proselyte?
I ask but this, to show your sorrow
At my departure hence, to-morrow,
Add to your dinner, for my sake,
One supernumerary steak!
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."
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.
“My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit--
I 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 all the summer 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."