The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers, And the wild marsh marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May. The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, All the valley, mother, will be fresh, and green, and still, So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; TENNYSON. 7. WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE child, dear brother Jim, 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; "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. "Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet you are seven! I pray you tell, 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; 66 And, often after sunset, Sir, "The first that died was little Jane; "So in the church-yard she was laid; Together round her grave we played, "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; WORDSWORTH. 8. THE HOMES OF ENGLAND. THE stately Homes of England, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, The deer across their greensward bound And the swan glides past them with the sound The merry Homes of England! What gladsome looks of household love There woman's voice flows forth in song, The blessed Homes of England! Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church bell's chime The cottage Homes of England! Where first the child's glad spirit loves MRS. HEMANS. 9. THE AGED MINSTREL. [From THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.] THE way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, Seem'd to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy, Was carried by an orphan boy. |