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But Master Lamberton muttered,
And under his breath said he, “ This ship is so crank and walty
I fear our grave she will be ! ”
And the ships that came from England,
When the winter months were gone, Brought no tidings of this vessel,
Nor of Master Lamberton.
This put the people to praying
That the Lord would let them hear What in his greater wisdom
He had done with friends so dear.
And at last their prayers were answered:
It was in the month of June, An hour before the sunset
Of a windy afternoon,
When, steadily steering landward,
A ship was seen below, And they knew it was Lamberton, Master,
Who sailed so long ago.
On she came, with a cloud of canvas,
Right against the wind that blew, Until the eye could distinguish
The faces of the crew.
Then fell her straining topmasts,
Hanging tangled in the shrouds,
And her sails were loosened and lifted,
And blown away like clouds.
And the masts, with all their rigging,
Fell slowly, one by one,
As a sea-mist in the sun !
And the people who saw this marvel
Each said unto his friend,
And thus her tragic end.
And the pastor of the village
Gave thanks to God in prayer, That, to quiet their troubled spirits, He had sent this Ship of Air.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
THE BAREFOOT BOY
BLESSINGS on thee, little man,
Prince thou art, the grown-up man
eye, Outward sunshine, inward joy: Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl, and habitude Of the tenants of the wood ; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the groundnut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans ! For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
O for boyhood's time of June,
Still as my
O for festal dainties spread, Like my
bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude !
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cheerily, then, my little man,
John Greenleaf Whittier.