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The lighter form which grac'd Plantagenet's days,
High pointed vault, and shafts in clusters bound,
Or where the treliss'd net-work, richly wound, O'er Tudor's roofs and low-brow'd portals strays. Gaze on them! they are worthy, and declare
A brave munificence! Nor let thy heart
Of vain profusion. Noble was the art,
From his own gifts a large and liberal part.
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre,
But when the planets,
In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters
UWe are seven.
A SIMPLE child,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage-girl ;
She was eight years old, she said ;
That cluster'd round her head.
She had a rustic woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her beauty made me glad.
“ Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?” “How many ? seven in all,” she said,
And, wondering, look'd at me.
“And where are they? I pray you tell :"
She answer'd, “ Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell,
Anå two are gone to sea ;
* Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother ; 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;
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;
Then are ye 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 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,
And then she went away.
“ So in the churchyard she was laid ;
And when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we play'd,
My brother John and I.
“ And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
And he lies by her side.”
“How many are you, then,” said I,
If they two are in heaven?"
“0, master, we are seven!”
But they are dead, those two are dead,
Their spirits are in heaven :"
And said, “ Nay, we are seven!”
A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board,
And a refin'd rusticity, belong
To the neat mansion, where, his flock among, The learned pastor dwells, their watchful lord. Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword;
Though pride's least lurking thought appear a wrong
To human kind; though peace be on his tongue, Gentleness in his heart ;—can earth afford
Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free,
As when, array'd in Christ's authority, He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand,
Conjures, implores, and labours all he can For re-subjecting to Divine command
The stubborn spirit of rebellious man!