WE ARE SEVEN. Two of us in the churchyard 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," "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, D 25 I take my little porringer, The first that died was little Jane ; Till God released her of her pain ; So in the churchyard she was laid ; And when the ground was white with snow, My brother John was forced to go, "How many are you, then," said I, The little maiden did reply, "O master, we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in Heaven!" And said, "Nay, we are seven!" WORDSWORTH. HEAR thee speak of the better land ; [Of the poetry of FELICIA HEMANS, Scott is related to have deplored that, with so many and such fair blossoms, it had yielded so little fruit. The criticism, though not devoid of truth, was severe. Though Mrs. Hemans, unfortunately, never concentrated her great powers sufficiently to produce a poem displaying all her excellencies, she has achieved an undoubted right to a high rank among English poets. She died in 1835, aged 40.] 28 THE BETTER LAND. And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs?" --"Not there, not there, my child!" "Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, And the date grows ripe under sunny skies ? " Is it far away in some region old, Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! MRS. HEMANS. Hohenlinden. N Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark. as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, by thunder riven ; And rolling, like the bolts of Heaven, [THOMAS CAMPBELL, one of the most distinguished among modern poets, was born at Glasgow in 1777. At the early age of 22 he wrote his fine poem the " Pleasures of Hope;" but it is upon his Odes and Ballads that his fame chiefly rests. Of these, the most universally appreciated are, "Ye Mariners of England," " Lord Ullin's Daughter," and the "Battle of the Baltic." Of the fight of Hohenlinden he was an eyewitness. He died in 1844.] |