The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge: Poems, Plays, Essays, Lectures, Autobiography & Personal Letters (Illustrated). Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 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 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 —

       I sit and sing 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 little 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 all the summer 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?”

       The little Maiden did 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!”

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS.

       Table of Contents

      Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.

      I have a boy of five years old,

       His face is fair and fresh to see;

       His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

       And dearly he loves me.

      One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk,

       Our quiet house all full in view,

       And held such intermitted talk

       As we are wont to do.

      My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

       I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

       My pleasant home, when Spring began,

       A long, long year before.

      A day it was when I could bear

       To think, and think, and think again;

       With so much happiness to spare,

       I could not feel a pain.

      My boy was by my side, so slim

       And graceful in his rustic dress!

       And oftentimes I talked to him

       In very idleness.

      The young lambs ran a pretty race;

       The morning sun shone bright and warm;

       ”Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,

       And so is Liswyn farm.”

      ”My little boy, which like you more,”

       I said and took him by the arm —

       ”Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,

       Or here at Liswyn farm?”

      ”And tell me, had you rather be,”

       I said and held-him by the arm,

       ”At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,

       Or here at Liswyn farm?”

      In careless mood he looked at me,

       While still I held him by the arm,

       And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

       Than here at Liswyn farm.”

      ”Now, little Edward, say why so;

       My little Edward, tell me why;”

       ”I cannot tell, I do not know.”

       ”Why this is strange,” said I.

      ”For, here are woods and green hills warm:

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