Graded Memory Selections Part 7

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river; For men may come, and men may go, But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles; I bubble into eddying bays; I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my bank I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter as I flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, For men may come, and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a l.u.s.ty trout, And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along and flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, For men may come, and men may go, But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and gra.s.sy plots, I slide by hazel covers, I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my s.h.i.+ngly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the br.i.m.m.i.n.g river, For men may come and men may go But I go on forever.

--_Tennyson._

THE WONDERFUL WORLD.

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World, With the wonderful water around you curled, And the wonderful gra.s.s upon your breast-- World, you are beautifully dressed.

The wonderful air is over me, And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree, It walks on the water, and whirls the mills, And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.

You, friendly Earth, how far do you go, With the wheatfields that nod and the rivers that flow, With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles, And people upon you for thousands of miles?

Ah, you are so great, and I am so small, I tremble to think of you, World, at all; And yet, when I said my prayers, to-day, A whisper inside me seemed to say, "You are more than the earth, though you are such a dot: You can love and think, and the Earth can not!"

--_W. B. Rands._

DON'T GIVE UP.

If you've tried and have not won, Never stop for crying; All that's great and good is done Just by patient trying.

Though young birds, in flying, fall, Still their wings grow stronger; And the next time they can keep Up a little longer.

Though the st.u.r.dy oak has known Many a blast that bowed her, She has risen again, and grown Loftier and prouder.

If by easy work you beat, Who the more will prize you?

Gaining victory from defeat, That's the test that tries you!

--_Phoebe Cary._

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 cl.u.s.tered 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 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 G.o.d released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid; And when the gra.s.s 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!"

--_Wordsworth._

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE.