CXI

THE CHILDLESS FATHER

"UP, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."

-Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past;
One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut
With a leisurely motion the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'

But of this in my ears not a word did he speak ;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.

CXII

TO A SEXTON

LET thy wheel-barrow alone-
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy bone-house bone on bone?
'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid;

These died in peace each with the other,—

Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform, eight feet square,

Take not even a finger-joint :

Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly daughter lies,

From weakness now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride—
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!

By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,

S

Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,

Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!

CXIII

WE ARE SEVEN

A simple Child,

That lightly draws its breath,
And 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 clustered round her head.

1799

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad :

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
-Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?"

"How many? 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,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven !-I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

“You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five."

"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,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,

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.