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Soon shall spring, with smiles and blushes,
Steal upon the blooming year,
Thy sweet song shall warble clear ;-
In this iron-hearted age,
And confine thee in a cage ;
In the crown of earthly joys,
All delights beside are toys.
33.-PRINCIPLE PUT TO THE TEST. A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest Had once his integrity put to the test; His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, And asked him to go and assist in the job. He was very much shock’d, and answer'd " Oh
What! rob our poor neighbour! I pray you don't
go,  Dobbin a word chosen to express a rude, inhuman fellow.
Besides the man's poor, his orchard's his bread . Then think of his children, for they must be fed.”
" You speak very fine, and you look very grave,
They spoke, and Tom ponder'd—" I see they will
“ If this matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang, till they dropp'd from the
tree; But, since they will take them, I think I'll go too, He will lose none by me, though I get a few."
His scruples thus silenc'd, Tom felt more at ease, And went with his comrades the apples to seize; He blam'd and protested, but join'd in the plan; He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man.
34.—THE BARLEY-MOWERS' SONG.
Barley-mowers, here we stand,
All a-row, with spirits blithe,
Now we whet the bended scythe,
Side by side, now bending low,
Standing 'mong the barley lithe, 
After labour cometh ease,
Rise we all and whet the scythe,
Barley-mowers must be true,
Whetting all at once the scythe,
Day and night, and night and day,
By the falling barley swath :  Swaths—lines of grass or corn cut down by the  True's—for true as.  Flexible waving.
While we sing with voices blithe,
We may hear his ringing scythe,
Time, the mower, cuts down all,
Ready for the whetted scythe,
35.—WE ARE SEVEN. (A simple child dear brother Jim,
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. “ 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 church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother ;
Dwell near them with my mother.”
“ You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea ;
Sweet maid, how this may be.”
Then did the little maid reply,
" Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree.”
“ You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
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;
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.