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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
And nobly us'd, which gave their God to share
THE heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place,
Office and custom, in all line of order.
But when the planets,
In evil mixture, to disorder wander,
What plagues and what portents! what mutiny! What raging of the sea! shaking of the earth! Commotion in the winds! frights! changes! horrors! Divert and crack, rend and deracinate
The unity and married calm of states
Quite from the fixture! O! when degree is shak'd, Which is the ladder to all high designs,
The enterprise is sick.
Take but degree away, untune that string,
And hark, what discord follows! Each thing meets
In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters
Should lift their waters higher than their shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe :
Strength should be lord of imbecility,
And the rude son should strike his father dead.
Then every thing includes itself in power,
And appetite, an universal wolf,
So doubly seconded with will and power,
We are Seven.
A SIMPLE child,
That lightly draws its breath,
I met a little cottage-girl;
She was eight years old, she said;
She had a rustic woodland air,
"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,
"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,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
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;
"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,
"And often after sunset, sir,
I take my little porringer,
"The first that died was little Jane;
So in the churchyard she was laid;
"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?"
But they are dead, those two are dead,
'Twas throwing words away; for still
A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board,
To the neat mansion, where, his flock among,
The stubborn spirit of rebellious man!