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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
By the lighthouse rock I strays

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 !
Set in the Baltic Sea :

And the waves have spread

The sandy bed
That holds my Love from me.




LIKE Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand
And seeing a human footprint on the sand,
Have I this day been startled, finding here,
Set in brown mould and delicately clear,
Spring's footprint — the first crocus of the year!
O sweet invasion! Farewell, solitude !
Soon shall wild creatures of the field and wood
Flock from all sides with much ado and stir,
And make of me most willing prisoner!

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.


OUR band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress-tree ;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands

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.
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.
With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly

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,

and away

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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.
And lovely ladies greet our band

With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,

And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.

William Cullen Bryant.


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;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

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;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies ;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.


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Toiling, - rejoicing, - sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ;

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