But Master Lamberton muttered, And the ships that came from England, 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: 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 the masts, with all their rigging, And the hulk dilated and vanished, As a sea-mist in the sun! And the people who saw this marvel Each said unto his friend, That this was the mould of their vessel, And thus her tragic end. And the pastor of the village Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE BAREFOOT BOY BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace: From my heart I give thee joy, I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Let the million-dollared ride! 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 hornet artisans ! gray For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, O for boyhood's time of June, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Still as my horizon grew, O for festal dainties spread, On the door-stone, gray and rude! 631420 O'er me, like a regal tent, Cheerily, then, my little man, Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: Quick and treacherous sands of sin. Ere it passes, barefoot boy! John Greenleaf Whittier. |