"We Are Seven" "Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell, Then did the little Maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid; "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 often after sunset, Sir, "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. 317 "So in the church-yard she was laid; "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!" William Wordsworth (1770-1850] MY CHILD I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes,-he is not there! I walk my parlor floor, To give my boy a call; And then bethink me that-he is not there! I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, My Child With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! I know his face is hid Under the coffin-lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye, Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked; he is not there! 319 He lives! In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; And on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there! John Pierpont [1785-1866] THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; I laughed and said I could not;-set you down, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky, CHALLENGE THIS little child, so white, so calm, Decked for her grave, Encountered death without a qualm. Are you as brave? So small, and armed with naught beside Her mother's kiss, Alone she stepped, unterrified, Into the abyss. Tired Mothers "Ah," you explain, "she did not know This babe of four Just what it signifies to go." Do you know more? Kenton Foster Murray [18 321 TIRED MOTHERS A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee, But it is blessedness! A year ago That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, W I did not kiss more oft and tenderly And if some night when you sit down to rest, If the white feet into their grave had tripped, I wonder so that mothers ever fret At little children clinging to their gown; "I |