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XXIII. I cannot tell liow this may be, But plain it is, tħe thorn is bound With heavy tufts of moss, that strive To drag it to the ground. And this I know, full many a time, When she was on the mountain high, By day, and in the silent night, When all the stars shone clear and bright, That I have heard her cry, “Oh misery! oh misery! " O woe is.me ! oh misery!"
WE ARE SEVEN.
A simple child, dear brother Jim,
I met a little cottage girl,
She had a rustic, woodland air,
“ 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,
“ You say that two at Conway dwell,
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,
“And often after sunset, Sir;
“ The first, that died was little Jane ;
“ 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."