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The Lord my pasture shall prepare,
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Though in the paths of death I tread
ADDISON WE ARE SEVEN,
A SIMPLE child,
That lightly draws its breath, That 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 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 k 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,
And two are gone to sea.
WE ARE SEVEN.
“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 sing a song 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 sister 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 ?” Quick was the little maid's reply,
“O master ! we are seven.”
“But they are dead; those two are dead;
l Their spirits are in heaven !" 'Twas throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, “ Nay, we are seven !"
WORDSWORTH. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heavenly flame !
Hark, they whisper-angels say,
The world recedes-it disappears !
With sounds seraphic ring!