Sidor som bilder

They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home, and leant on Heaven
Our hand.



Science, against, launch, launch'd, tent, tenth, tenths, tents, wants, want'st, means.

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;

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.

Toiling-rejoicing — sorrowing -
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

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.



Play, people, peopl'd, peopl'dst, scruples, scrupl'st, open, open'd, opens, praise, droops, droop'st, precept, precepts, accept'st, depth, depths.

A Psalm of Life.

What the Heart of the young Man said to the Psalmist.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.


Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

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Herb, verb, curb, curb'd, curb'dst; herbs, verbs, curbs, curb'st, bard, bards, rewards, reward'st, surf, scarfs, iceberg, icebergs, barge, urge, urg'd.

The Cataract and the Steamboat; or, Power and Gentleness. BERNARD BARTON.

NOBLE the mountain stream,

Bursting in grandeur from its vantage ground :
Glory is in its gleam

Of brightness-thunder in its deafening sound:

Mark how its foaming spray,

Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes,
Mimics the bow of day
Arching in majesty the vaulted skies; -

Thence, in a summer shower,

Steeping the rocks around: -O, tell me where
Could majesty and power

Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair?

Yet lovelier, in my view,

The streamlet, flowing silently serene,
Traced by the brighter hue

And livelier growth it gives, itself unseen!

It flows through flowery meads,

Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse; Its quiet beauty feeds

The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs.

Gently it murmurs by

The village churchyard, in low, plaintive tone,
A dirge-like melody

For worth and beauty modest as its own.

More gayly now it sweeps

By the small school-house in the sunshine bright, And o'er the pebbles leaps,

Like happy hearts by holiday made light.

May not its course express,

In characters which they who run may read,
The charms of gentleness,

Were but its still small voice allowed to plead ?


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