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SEVEN years, and thou art sweet. Little maid ; Half enraptured with the world, Half afraid. Should I kiss thee, not a tear. Not a smile — t)n]y wonder. So I wait For a while. Seven more, and thou hast looked Past the strife. Through the bitterness of death Unto life. Dare I kiss thee, who hast prayed. Who hast striven ? Not on earth, little maid ; But in heaven ! Seven more, and thou art fair. Calm of face. With the gentleness of queens, And the grace. Should I whisper of a kiss, Imminent Thou wouldst banish me, or blush Thv consent. 'Tis a parable, my song Of the kiss. Do ye know the little maid, Who she is ? For since ever Beauty was Is the time Of the thrice seven years Of my rhyme. John VVAnHAcK, gvTXa- cavaT- lapid em non-vi- sep • siepe-cadendo 4 Edinburg-h : T. and A. Constable^ Prhtieis to Her Majesty.