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Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves their fadeless lines display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree:-
So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and gay,
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

SOUTHEY.

82. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

NDER a spreading chestnut tree

UNDER

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 eyes.

A tear out of his

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close:
Something attempted, something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose.

K

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

LONGFELLOW.

83. THE BOOK OF NATURE.
THERE is a book who runs may read,
Which heavenly truth imparts;
And all the lore its scholars need,
Pure eyes and Christian hearts.
The works of God above, below,
Within us and around,

Are pages in that book, to show
How God himself is found.
The glorious sky, embracing all,
Is like the Maker's love;
Wherewith encompass'd, great and small
In peace and order move.

The moon above, the Church below,
A wondrous race they run;

But all their radiance, all their glow,
Each borrows of its sun.

The Saviour lends the light and heat
That crowns His holy hill;

The saints, like stars, around His seat
Perform their courses still.

The saints above are stars in Heaven.
What are the saints on earth?

Like trees they stand, whom God has given Our Eden's happy birth.

Faith is their fix'd unswerving root,

Hope their unfading flower,

Fair deeds of charity their fruit,

The glory of their bower.

The dew of Heaven is like Thy grace;
It steals in silence down;

But where it lights the favour'd place
By richest fruits is known.

One Name above all glorious names,
With its ten thousand tongues,
The everlasting sea proclaims,
Echoing angelic songs.

The raging fire, the roaring wind,
Thy boundless power display;
But in the gentler breeze we find
Thy Spirit's viewless way.

Two worlds are ours: 'tis only sin
Forbids us to descry

The mystic heaven and earth within,
Plain as the sea and sky.

Thou who hast given me eyes to see
And love this sight so fair;

Give me a heart to find out Thee,

And read Thee everywhere!

KEBLE.

84. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

[From CHILDE Harold.]

STOP! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust, Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so: As the ground was before, thus let it be.How that red rain-hath made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is!—it is!—the cannon's opening

roar!

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