To the last point of vision, and be-Two of us in the churchyard lie, yond, Mount, daring warbler! - that loveprompted strain -'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond - Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood: A privacy of glorious light is thine, Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, Then did the little maid reply, "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, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit I sit and sing to them, And often after sunset, sir, The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. So in the churchyard she was laid; And steps of virgin liberty; And now I see with eye serene And when the ground was white with Endurance, foresight, strength, and 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!" SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DE- SHE was a phantom of delight A lovely apparition, sent A dancing shape, an image gay, I saw her upon nearer view, free, skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned, SCORN NOT THE SONNET. SCORN not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors: with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; [grief; Camoëns soothed with it an exile's The sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp, It cneered mild Spenser, called from fairy-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp [hand Fell round the path of Milton, in his The thing becaine a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains - alas, too few! EVENING. IT is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea. Listen! the mighty Being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder-everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl, that walkest with me here! If thou appearest untouched by solemn thought, Thy nature is not, therefore, less divine: Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all And worshippest at the temple's in the year, Dear ner shrine, God! the very houses seem asleep; God being with thee when we knew And all that mighty heart is lying it not. still! ΤΟ THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass, I hear thee babbling to the vale Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush and tree and sky. To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed bird! the earth we pace An unsubstantial, fairy place; |