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WE ARE SEVEN.

A SIMPLE child,

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.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair-
Her beauty made me glad.

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"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?"

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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."

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"How many are you then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?"

The little maiden did reply,

"Oh, 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!"

THER

EARLY CHILDHOOD.

HERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
The earth, and every common sight

To me did seem

Apparell'd in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.
It is not now as it has been of yore;—
Turn wheresoe'er I may,

By night or day,

The things which I have seen I now can see no more!

The rainbow comes and goes,

And lovely is the rose;

The moon doth with delight

Look round her when the heavens are bare;
Waters on a starry night

Are beautiful and fair;

The sunshine is a glorious birth;

But yet I know, where'er I go,

That there hath pass'd away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song,
And while the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's' sound,

To me alone there came a thought of grief :
A timely utterance gave that thought relief,

And I again am strong.

The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong :
I hear the echos through the mountains throng,
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep,
And all the earth is gay;

Land and sea

Give themselves up to jollity,

And with the heart of May

Doth every beast keep holiday ;—

Thou child of joy

Shut round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy

Shepherd boy!

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