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WE ARE SETEN.
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And two are gone to sea,
Sweet maid, how this may be.”
“ Seven boys and girls are we;
Beneath the churchyard tree.”
“ You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive ;
Then ye are only five.”
The little maid replied,
And they are side by side.
My kerchief there I hem ;
I sit and sing to them.
When it is light and fair,
WE ARE SEVEN.
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 all the summer dry,
My brother John and I.
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 ? " 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!”
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.]
THE BETTER LAND.
And the fire-fies glance through the myrtle boughs ? --_“Not there, not there, my child ! ”
“ Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
“ Is it far away in some region old, Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold ; Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, And the diamond lights up the secret mine, And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand ? Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? ” —“Not there, not there, my child !”
Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy!
N Linden, when the sun
was low, All bloodless lay the un
But Linden saw another
sight, When the drum beat at
dead of night, Commanding fires of death to
By torch and trumpet fast array'd
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, by thunder riven ;
Far flash'd the red artillery.
[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 eye. witness. He died in 1844.]