Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower. Startles the pensive traveller while he treads Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, At length the Vision closes; and the mind, WE ARE SEVEN. (5) A SIMPLE Child, dear brother Jim ! 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; "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." 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, If two are in the church-yard laid, "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 sun-set, Sir, The first that died was sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain; So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, 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! 'Twas throwing words away; for still And said, "Nay, we are seven !" Composed 1798. THE THORN. 1. Published 1798. "THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old, In truth, you'd find it hard to say Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect, and like a stone II. Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, Up from the earth these mosses creep, And all have joined in one endeavour III. High on a mountain's highest ridge, Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale ; Not five yards from the mountain path, This Thorn you on your left espy ; And to the left, three yards beyond, You see a little muddy pond Of water-never dry Though but of compass small, and bare IV. And, close beside this aged Thorn, All lovely colours there you see, v. Ah me! what lovely tints are there This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, Is like an infant's grave in size, But never, never any where, An infant's grave was half so fair. VI. Now would you see this aged Thorn, You must take care and choose your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits between the heap So like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A Woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, 'Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!' VII. At all times of the day and night This wretched Woman thither goes ; And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; |