Looks down upon her with a smile, SONNET. SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; She had a rustic, woodland air, Her eyes were fair, and very fair; "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, "How many may you be ?" "6 How many y? 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, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell, Then did the little Maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid, If two are in the church-yard laid, "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 sun-set, Sir, The first that died was sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. So in the church-yard she was laid: And, when the grass 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, "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" "T was throwing words away: for still The little Maid would have her will And said, "Nay, we are seven!" LUCY. SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways A Maid whom there were none to praise A violet by a mossy stone -Fair as a star, when only one She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me! 1798. 1799. MICHAEL. A PASTORAL POEM. IF from the public way you turn your steps It is in truth an utter solitude; Nor should I have made mention of this Dell For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills Of natural objects, led me on to feel For passions that were not my own, and think |