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On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,

To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And, louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly!
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy!
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave !
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!


Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !


17. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold :Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered—“The names of those who love the Lord.” “ And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee then Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”

The angel wrote, and vanish’d. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless d,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.



18. WE ARE SEVEN. A SIMPLE Child, dear brother Jim,

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 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 you 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 you 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 church-yard she was laid ;

Ard, 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 !"
'Twas throwing words away ; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, “Nay, we are seven!”


19. A SONG OF SPRING. WHEN swelling buds their sheaths forsake

Sing, cuckoo, sing in flowering tree-
And yellow daffodils awake,

The virgin Spring is fair to see.
When streams through banks of daisies run-

Sing, cuckoo, sing in flowering tree-
And sky-larks hymn the rising sun,

Spring holds her court in grove and lea.

When cowslips load with sweets the air

Sing, cuckoo, sing in flowering treeSpring braids with flowers her golden hair, And bids the mating birds agree.


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