— 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 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 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 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 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 church-yard 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!"

                     Twas throwing words away; for still

                     The little Maid would have her will,

                     And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

                          Легко радушное дитя

                             Привыкшее дышать,

                          Здоровьем, жизнию цветя,

                             Как может смерть понять?

                          Навстречу девочка мне шла:

                             Лет восемь было ей;

                          Ее головку облегла

                             Струя густых кудрей.

                          И дик был вид ее степной,

                             И дик простой наряд,

                          И радовал меня красой

                             Малютки милый взгляд.

                          "Всех сколько вас, — ей молвил я, —

                             И братьев, и сестер?"

                          — Всего? Нас семь! — и, на меня

                             Дивясь, бросает взор.

                          "А где ж они?" — Нас семь всего, —

                             В ответ малютка мне. —

                          Нас двое жить пошли в село

                             И два на корабле.

                          И на кладбище брат с сестрой

                             Лежат из семерых,

                          А за кладбищем я с родной:

                             Живем мы подле них.

                          "Как? Двое жить в село пошли,

                             Пустились двое плыть,

                          А вас все семь! Дружок, скажи,

                             Как это может быть?"

                          — Нас семь, нас семь! — она тотчас

                             Опять сказала мне.

                          — Здесь на кладбище двое нас

                             Под ивою в земле.

                          "Ты бегаешь вокруг нее,

                             Ты видно, что жива;

                          Но вас лишь пять, дитя мое,

                             Когда под ивой два".

                          — На их гробах земля в цветах,

                             И десяти шагов

                          Нет от дверей родной моей

                             До милых нам гробов.

                          Я часто здесь чулки вяжу,

                             Платок мой здесь рублю,

                          И подле их могил сижу,

                             И песни им пою.

                          И если позднею порой

                             Светло горит заря,

                          То, взяв мой сыр и хлеб с собой,

                             Здесь ужинаю я.

                          Малютка Дженни день и ночь

                             Томилася, больна;

                          Но Бог ей не забыл помочь —

                             И спряталась она.

                          Когда ж ее мы погребли

                             И расцвела земля —

                          К ней на могилку мы пришли

                             Резвиться, Джон и я.

                          Но только дождалась зимой

                             Коньков я и саней,

                          Ушел и Джон, братишка мой,

                             И лег он рядом с ней.

                          "Так сколько ж вас?" — был мой ответ. —

                          На небе двое, верь!

                          Вас только пять". — О, барин, нет!

                          Сочти — нас семь теперь.

                          "Да нет уж двух: они в земле,

                          А души в небесах!"

                          Но был ли прок в моих словах?

                          Все девочка твердила мне:

                          — О нет, нас семь, нас семь!