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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
I wander round, Amidst the grassy graves :
But all I hear
Is the north wind drear, And all I see are the waves.
The Northern Star
Is set afar !
And the waves have spread
The sandy bed
" LIKE CRUSOE, WALKING BY THE LONELY
LIKE Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
SONG OF MARION'S MEN 1
OUR band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
When Marion's name is told.
Our tent the cypress-tree ;
As seamen know the sea.
Its glades of reedy grass,
Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery,
That little dread us noar!
1 Note 4.
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp
their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again.
A mighty host behind,
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.
As if a hunt were up,
To crown the soldier's cup.
That in the pine-top grieves,
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. 'Tis 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
campA momentBack to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
With kindliest welcoming,
And tears like those of spring.
And lay them down no more
William Cullen Bryant.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door ;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies ;
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes ;