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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.

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 who 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 churchyard lie,

My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard 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 churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard 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 sunset, 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 churchyard 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,
"O master! we are seven.'

"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!"

AN INCIDENT AT BRUGES. In Bruges town is many a street Whence busy life hath fled; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet The grass-grown pavement tread. There heard we, halting in the shade

Flung from a convent-tower,

A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.

The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords,
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet,-for English words
Had fallen upon the ear.

It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire;
But, where we stood, the setting sun
Showed little of his state:
And, if the glory reached the nun,
"Twas through an iron grate.

Not always is the heart unwise,
Nor pity idly born,

If even a passing stranger sighs

For them who do not mourn.
Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove,
Captive, whoe'er thou be?
Oh! what is beauty, what is love,
And opening life to thee?

Such feeling pressed upon my soul,
A feeling sanctified

By one soft trickling tear that stole
From the maiden at my side;
Less tribute could she pay than this,
Borne gayly o'er the sea,
Fresh from the beauty and the bliss
Of English liberty?

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself,

Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chant

More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands:

Such thrilling voice was never heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending.
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And when I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

AUTUMN.

THE Sylvan slopes with corn-clad fields
Are hung, as if with golden shields,
Bright trophies of the sun!
Like a fair sister of the sky,
Unruffled doth the blue lake lie,

The mountains looking on.

And, sooth to say, yon vocal grove,
Albeit uninspired by love,

By love untaught to ring,
May well afford to mortal ear
An impulse more profoundly dear
Than music of the spring.

For that from turbulence and heat
Proceeds, from some uneasy seat
In nature's struggling frame,
Some region of impatient life:
And jealousy, and quivering strife,
Therein a portion claim.
This, this is holy; while I hear
These vespers of another year,

This hymn of thanks and praise,
My spirit seems to mount above
The anxieties of human love,

And earth's precarious days.

But list!-though winter storms be nigh, Uncheck'd is that soft harmony:

There lives Who can provide For all his creatures; and in Him, Even like the radiant seraphim, These choristers confide.

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.

SHE was a phantom of delight,

When first she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A spirit, yet a woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright
With something of an angel light.

A MOUNTAIN SOLITUDE.

IT was a cove, a huge recess,

That keeps till June December's snow; A lofty precipice in front,

A silent tarn below!
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,
Remote from public road or dwelling,
Pathway, or cultivated land,
From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes does a leaping fish

Send through the tarn a lonely cheer. The crags repeat the raven's croak

In symphony austere ; Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud; And mists that spread the flying shroud, And sun-beams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous barrier binds it fast.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

WALTER SCOTT was born in Edinburgh on the fifteenth of August, 1771. "My birth," says he, "was neither distinguished nor sordid; according to the prejudices of my country it was esteemed gentle, as I was connected, though remotely, with ancient families, both by my father's and mother's side." Delicacy of constitution, attended by a lameness which proved permanent, was apparent in his infancy, and induced his removal to the rural residence of his grandfather, near the Tweed, where he remained until about the eighth year of his age. In the introduction to the third canto of Marmion he has graphically described the scenery by which he was surrounded, his interest in its ruins and his sympathy with its grandeur and beauty. The romantic ballads and legends to which he listened here were treasured in his memory, and had a powerful influence upon his future character. From 1779 to 1783 he was in the high school of Edinburgh. He tells us, alluding to this period, that he had a reputation as a tale-teller, and that the applause of his companions was a recompense for the disgraces and punishments he incurred by being idle himself and keeping others idle during hours which should have been devoted to study. In 1783 he became a student in the university, but his education proceeded unprosperously. He had no inclination for science, and was a careless learner of the languages, though he acquired the French, Italian, and Spanish, so as to read them with sufficient ease.

In 1786 he entered the law office of his father, and in 1792, being then nearly twentyone years of age, he was called to the bar. He paid little attention to his profession, but was an industrious reader of romantic literature, in his own and foreign languages, especially in the German, with which he had recently become familiar. The position of his family, and his own cheerful temper and fine colloquial abilities, procured him admission to the best society of the city, and led to his acquaintance with a young lady by whose marriage long and fondly-cherished hopes were disappointed. Her image was for ever in his

memory, and inspired some of the most beautiful passages in his poetry. In 1797, however, he became acquainted with Miss CHarpentier, the daughter of a French refugee, to whom, in the autumn of that year, he was married.

Previous to this time M. G. LEWIS had acquired considerable reputation by his imitations of the German ballads; and conceiving that if inferior to him in poetical powers, he was his superior in general information, SCOTT had undertaken to become his rival. His earliest efforts, translations of BURGER'S Leonore and Wild Huntsman, were published in 1796, and two years afterward appeared in London his version of GOETHE'S Goetz von Berlichingen. Each of these volumes was favourably reviewed, but coldly received by the public.

Soon after his marriage Scorr had taken a pleasant house on the banks of the Tweed, about thirty miles from Edinburgh. By the death of his father he had come into possession of a considerable income; his wife had an annuity of four hundred pounds; and the office of sheriff of Selkirkshire, which imposed very little duty, now produced him some three hundred more. At twenty-eight years of age few men were more happily situated, but he had as yet done scarcely any thing toward founding a reputation as a man of letters.

His leisure hours were for several years devoted to the preparation of The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, the third and last volume of which appeared in 1803. This work gave him at once an enviable position. He soon after visited London, where he formed friendships with the leading authors of the day, and in the beginning of 1805 he placed himself in the list of classic writers by the publication of his first great original work, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, which was received with universal applause, and of which more than thirty thousand copies were sold in the ensuing twenty years.

The limits of this biography forbid any thing more than an allusion to SCOTT's obtaining one of the principal clerkships in the Scottish Court of Session, his quarrel with Constable, partnership with Ballantyne, esta

blishment of the Quarterly Review, and early ambition to elevate his social position by acquiring territorial possessions.

In 1805 he wrote the first chapters of a novel, but the opinion of a friend to whom the manuscript was submitted prevented its completion. In 1808 he published Marmion, in 1810 The Lady of the Lake, in 1811 The Vision of Don Roderick, in 1812 Rokeby, and in 1813 The Bridal of Triermain. His poetical career closed in 1815 with The Lord of the Isles and The Field of Waterloo; although he subsequently published anonymously Harold the Dauntless and his Dramatic Writings, which were unworthy of his reputation. His range as a poet was limited; it had been all explored; and the greatest of modern poets had in the mean time taken a place with the sacred few who are destined to live immortally in men's hearts. SCOTT was among the first to recognise BYRON's superiority. In every field he would himself be first or nothing. He quitted the lyre for ever.

Crusaders in 1825, Woodstock in 1826, First Series of Chronicles of the Canongate and Tales of a Grandfather in 1827, Second Series of Chronicles of the Canongate and of the Tales of a Grandfather in 1828, Anne of Geirstein and the Third Series of Tales of a Grandfather in 1829, and Count Robert of Paris and Castle Dangerous in 1831.

In these years the estate of Abbotsford had been purchased and his palace erected. In 1820 he had been made a baronet, and from that time his house had been thronged by the most illustrious of his contemporaries. A change, to ScoTT of all changes the most terrible, awaited him. In 1826 the houses of Ballantyne and Constable stopped payment, and he was involved in their ruin. Though the amount of his debts seemed too great for a hope to exist that they could ever be paid, he refused to be dealt with as a bankrupt. He pledged the exertions of his future life to the discharge of the claims of his creditors. In the two years ending with 1827 he realized from his writings the astonishing sum of forty thousand pounds, and soon after his death his executors completed the payment of all his liabilities. Among his latest works, contributing to this result, were The History of Scotland and The Life of Napoleon. The last of these had an immense sale, and brought a larger profit than any of his previous writ

Scorr had already published his admirable editions of SWIFT and DRYDEN; and from this period till 1825 his name was not before the public except in connection with Paul's Letters to his Kinsfolk, and a few articles in the Quarterly Review and the Encyclopædia Britannica. But in these ten years he laid the foundation of the highest reputation which the world of letters has furnished in the nineteenthings. Its popularity, however, was transient.

century. The composition of the novel which had been commenced in 1805 was resumed, and finished with remarkable rapidity. The work appeared in the summer of 1814 under the title of Waverley, and its success was immediate and unparalleled. The series of novels to which this gave a distinguishing title followed each other in quick succession, and were translated into almost every written language. The Author of Waverley became a part of the existence of mankind, and the discovery of his name the great enigma of the age. Guy Mannering was published in 1815, The Antiquary, Old Mortality, and the Black Dwarf in 1816, Rob Roy and the Heart of Mid-Lothian in 1818, The Bride of Lammermoor and the Legend of Montrose in 1819, Ivanhoe, The Monastery, and The Abbot in 1820, Kenilworth in 1821, The Pirate and the Fortunes of Nigel in 1822, Quentin Durward and Peveril of the Peak in 1823, St. Ronan's Well and Redgauntlet in 1824, Tales of the

It is a brilliant chronicle of events, but partial in its views, and executed with too little care and research to add to such a reputation as Walter Scott's.

In 1829 Scorr's health had materially declined, and in the following year his intellect began to fail under the weight of his cares and labours. In September, 1831, he sailed, in a ship of war furnished by the government, for Malta and Naples, in the hope that relaxation and a voyage at sea would induce his restoration. After a few months passed in Italy, his mind became a wreck, and his friends made haste to reach home with him before his death. They arrived at Abbotsford on the eleventh of July, 1832; he lingered, with a few intervals of consciousness, until the twenty-first of September, and expired. His remains are buried in the romantic ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, like the tomb of SHAKSPEARE, has become a place of pilgrimage for the world.

THE TRIAL OF CONSTANCE.

In low dark rounds the arches hung,
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung;
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er,
Half-sunk in earth, by time half-wore,
Were all the pavement of the floor;
The mildew drops fell one by one,
With tinkling plash, upon the stone.
A cresset, in an iron chain,

Which served to light this drear domain,
With damp and darkness seem'd to strive,
As if it scarce might keep alive;
And yet it dimly served to show
The awful conclave met below.
There, met to doom in secrecy,

Were met the heads of convents three;
All servants of Saint Benedict,
The statutes of whose order strict

On iron table lay;

In long black dress, on seats of stone,
Behind were these three judges shown,

By the pale cresset's ray :

The abbess of Saint Hilda's, there,
Sate for a space with visage bare,
Until, to hide her bosom's swell,
And tear-drops that for pity fell,

She closely drew her veil;
Yon shrouded figure, as I guess,
By her proud mien and flowing dress,
Is Tynemouth's haughty prioress,

And she with awe looks pale:
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight
Has long been quench'd by age's night,
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone,
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace is shown,
Whose look is hard and stern,-
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style;
For sanctity call'd, through the isle,
The saint of Lindisfern.
Before them stood a guilty pair;
But, though an equal fate they share,
Yet one alone deserves our care.
Her sex a page's dress belied;
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied,
Obscured her charms, but could not hide.
Her cap down o'er her face she drew;
And, on her doublet-breast,
She tried to hide the badge of blue,
Lord Marmion's falcon crest.

But, at the prioress' command,
A monk undid the silken band,
That tied her tresses fair,

And raised the bonnet from her head,
And down her slender form they spread,

In ringlets rich and rare.
Constance de Beverley they know,
Sister profess'd of Fontevraud,

Whom the church number'd with the dead, For broken vows, and convent fled. . . . Her comrade was a sordid soul,

...

Such as does murder for a meed; Who, but of fear, knows no control, Because his conscience, sear'd and foul, Feels not the import of his deed; One, whose brute feeling ne'er aspires

Beyond his own more brute desires.
Such tools the Tempter ever needs
To do the savagest of deeds:
For them no vision'd terrors daunt,
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt;
One fear with them, of all most base-
The fear of death,-alone finds place.
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl,
And shamed not loud to moan and howl,
His body on the floor to dash,

And crouch, like hound beneath the lash;
While his mute partner, standing near,
Waited her doom without a tear.
Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek,
Well might her paleness terror speak;
For there were seen in that dark wall
Two niches, narrow, deep and tall;—
Who enters at such griesly door
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more.
In each a slender meal was laid,
Of roots, of water, and of bread:
By each, in Benedictine dress,
Two haggard monks stood motionless;
Who, holding high a blazing torch,
Show'd the grim entrance of the porch:
Reflecting back the smoky beam,
The dark-red walls and arches gleam.
Hewn stones and cement were display'd,
And building tools in order laid.
And now that blind old Abbot rose,

To speak the Chapter's doom,
On those the wall was to enclose,

Alive, within the tomb:

But stopp'd, because that woful maid,
Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd.
Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain;
Her accents might no utterance gain:
Naught but imperfect murmurs slip
From her convulsed and quivering lip:
"Twixt each attempt all was so still,
You seem'd to hear a distant rill-
"Twas ocean's swells and falls;
For though this vault of sin and fear
Was to the sounding surge so near,
A tempest there you scarce could hear,
So massive were the walls.

At length, an effort sent apart
The blood that curdled at her heart,

And light came to her eye,
And colour dawn'd upon her cheek,
Like that left on the Cheviot peak
By Autumn's stormy sky;
And when her silence broke at length,
Still as she spoke she gather'd strength,
And arm'd herself to bear ;-

It was a fearful sight to see
Such high resolve and constancy,
In form so soft and fair.

"I speak not to implore your grace;
Well know I for one minute's space
Successless might I sue:

Nor do I speak your prayers to gain;
For if a death of lingering pain
To cleanse my sins be penance vain,
Vain are your masses too.

I listen'd to a traitor's tale,

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