"WE ARE SEVEN"

A simple Child, 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 cl.u.s.tered 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 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, Till G.o.d released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the gra.s.s 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!"

William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

MY CHILD

I cannot make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes,--he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor, And, through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give my boy a call; And then bethink me that--he is not there!

I thread the crowded street; A satch.e.l.led lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that--he is not there!

I know his face is hid Under the coffin-lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there!

I cannot make him dead!

When pa.s.sing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye, Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that--he is not there!

When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there!

When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

Not there!--Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear.

The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there!

He lives!--In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to G.o.d!

Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there!

John Pierpont [1785-1866]

THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED

Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, How in the soft June days forever done You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,-- "Put me 'way up--'way, 'way up in blue sky"?

I laughed and said I could not;--set you down, Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.

Another Father now, more strong than I, Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.

George Parsons Lathrop [1851-1898]

CHALLENGE

This little child, so white, so calm, Decked for her grave, Encountered death without a qualm.

Are you as brave?

So small, and armed with naught beside Her mother's kiss, Alone she stepped, unterrified, Into the abyss.