THE NORTHERN STAR A Tynemouth Ship THE Northern Star Sail'd over the bar Bound to the Baltic Sea; In the morning gray She stretch'd away :"T was a weary day to me! For many an hour In sleet and shower And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that is far away. The castle's bound Is the north wind drear, And all I see are the waves. The Northern Star Is set afar! Set in the Baltic Sea : And the waves have spread The sandy bed That holds my Love from me. Unknown. "LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY STRAND" LIKE Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand Thomas Bailey Aldrich. SONG OF MARION'S MEN1 OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our tent the cypress-tree; As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery, 1 Note 4. On them shall light at midnight And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, We share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads, The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. "T is life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlit plain; "T is life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane, A moment in the British camp Back to the pathless forest, Grave men there are by broad Santee, William Cullen Bryant. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH UNDER a spreading chestnut tree With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes |