PROVIDENCE. THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, When in the sultry glebe I faint, Though in the paths of death I tread ADDISON WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child, That lightly draws its breath, That 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 cluster'd round her head. 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, And two are gone to sea. WE ARE SEVEN. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Then did the little maid reply, "You run about, my little maid, Then are ye only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, mother's door, 79 And often after sunset, sir, The first that died was sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain; 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, "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply, "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 !" WORDSWORTH. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. VITAL spark of heavenly flame! Hark, they whisper-angels say, The world recedes-it disappears! Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly ! O death! where is thy sting? POPE. |