And now let us see him grown up;
Still cheerfulness dwelt in his mind,
Contentment yet sweeten'd his cup,
For still he was active and kind.
His garden well loaded with store,
His cot by the side of the green,
Where woodbines crept over the door.
And jessamines peep'd in between.
These fill'd him with honest delight,
And rewarded him well for his toil:
He went to bed cheerful at night,
And woke in the morn with a smile.
[Illustration]
WE ARE SEVEN
BY WM. WORDSWORTH.
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.