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WE ARE SEVEN.

“ 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 are ye 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,

And sing a song 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 sister 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 play'd,

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 ?” Quick was the little maid's 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 !"

WORDSWORTH. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.

VITAL spark of heavenly flame !
Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame !
Trembling, hoping, ling’ring, flying ;
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying !
Cease, fond nature ! cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life!

Hark, they whisper—angels say,
“Sister spirit, come away !".
What is this absorbs me quite,
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ?
Tell me, my soul-can this be death ?

The world recedes—it disappears !
Heaven opens on my eyes !—my ears

With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! Illy!
O grave ! where is thy victory?

O death! where is thy sting?

POPE.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,

Brought bloom and joy again, The murder'd traveller's bones were found

Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch above him hung

Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought

His hanging nest o'erhead ; And fearless, near the fatal spot,

Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away ;

And gentle eyes for him,
With watching many an anxious day,

Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew, who loved him so,

The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,

Unarmed and sore beset ;

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Nor how, when round the frosty pole

The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole

To banquet on the dead ;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,

They dress’d the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,

Unmoisten’d by a tear.

But long they look'd, and fear’d, and wept,

Within his distant home;
And dream’d, and started as they slept,

For joy that he was come.

Long, long they look’d, but never spied

His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen!

BRYANT.

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