Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye

Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split
Asunder, and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, (4) that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not !-the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent ;-still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

WE ARE SEVEN. (5)

A SIMPLE Child, dear brother Jim !
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.

"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,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard 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 church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard 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,

And sing a song to them.

And often after sun-set, 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,

Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was 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."

"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 !"

Composed 1798.

THE THORN.

1.

Published 1798.

"THERE is a Thorn-it looks so old,

In truth, you'd find it hard to say
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.

Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
No leaves it has, no prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.

It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.

II.

Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop :

Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they are bent
With plain and manifest intent
To drag it to the ground;

And all have joined in one endeavour
To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

III.

High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale

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
To thirsty suns and parching air.

IV.

And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermilion dye.

v.

Ah me! what lovely tints are there
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white!

This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the Thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

Is like an infant's grave in size,
As like as like can be:

But never, never any where,

An infant's grave was half so fair.

VI.

Now would you see this aged Thorn,
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,

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;