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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
Indulge the niggard thought, that aught is there
Of vain profusion. Noble was the art,
And nobly us'd, which gave their God to share
From his own gifts a large and liberal part.



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,
Power into will, will into appetite;

And appetite, an universal wolf,

So doubly seconded with will and power,
Must make perforce an universal prey,
And last eat up itself.


We are Seven.

A SIMPLE child,

That lightly draws its breath,
That feels its life in ev'ry breath
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 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, look'd at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell :"

She answer'd,

66 Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea;

"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;

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 churchyard lie,

Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid;
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
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 there upon the ground I sit,
And sit and sing 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 little Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God releas'd her of her pain,
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.

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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?"
The little maiden did 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!"


Pastoral Character.

A GENIAL hearth, a hospitable board,
And a refin'd rusticity, belong

To the neat mansion, where, his flock among,
The learned pastor dwells, their watchful lord.
Though meek and patient as a sheathed sword;

Though pride's least lurking thought appear a wrong To human kind; though peace be on his tongue, Gentleness in his heart;-can earth afford Such genuine state, pre-eminence so free, As when, array'd in Christ's authority, He from the pulpit lifts his awful hand, Conjures, implores, and labours all he can For re-subjecting to Divine command The stubborn spirit of rebellious man!


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