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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,
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 ;
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 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,
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,
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 !"
WORDSWORTH. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame !
Hark, they whisper—angels say,
The world recedes—it disappears !
With sounds seraphic ring!
O death! where is thy sting?
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 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,
Were sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
Unarmed and sore beset ;
Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
To banquet on the dead ;
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dress’d the hasty bier,
Unmoisten’d by a tear.
But long they look'd, and fear’d, and wept,
Within his distant home;
For joy that he was come.
Long, long they look’d, but never spied
His welcome step again,