CVI.-WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child, dear brother Jim, I met a little cottage girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic woodland air, "Sisters and brothers, little maid, "And where are they? I pray you tell.' "Two of us in the churchyard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, 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," "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, "The first that died was little Jane : "So in the churchyard she was laid; "And when the ground was white with snow, "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! And said, (6 Nay, we are seven!"-WORDSWORTIL CVII-ANDRE'S REQUEST TO WASHINGTON. IT is not the fear of death That damps my brow, It is not for another breath I can die with a lip unstirr'd, Let but this prayer be heard I can give up my mother's look- I can think of love-yet brook I can give up the young fame All-but the spotless name Thine is the power to give, Thine to deny, Joy for the hour I live— Calmness to die. By all the brave should cherish, By my dying breath, I ask that I may perish By a soldier's death! CVIII.-MARCO BOZZARIS. N. P. WILLIS. Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient Platea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were:- "To die for liberty is a pleasure, not a pain. AT midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, In dreams through camp and court he bore In dreams his song of triumph heard; An hour passed on,-the Turk awoke; "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" And death-shots falling thick and fast "Strike-till the last armed foe expires! They fought, like brave men, long and well; His few surviving comrades saw Like flowers at set of sun. Come to the bridal chamber, Death! The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier, But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 6* And in its hollow tones are heard Greece nurtured in her glory's time, We tell thy doom without a sigh; That were not born to die! FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. CIX.-A PSALM OF LIFE. TELL me not, in mournful numbers Life is real! Life is earnest ! grave "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! |