Page images



His arms like limbs of knotted yew;
His hands like rugged bark:

So he felleth still

With right good will,
As if to build an ark !
No rustic


is on his tongue,
No whistle on his lips;
But with a quiet thoughtfulness

His tristy tool he grips,
And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out
The bright and flying chips.


Graze on, graze on, there comes no sound

Of border warfare near,
No slogan-cry of gathering clan,

No battle-ase, no spear;
No belted knight,in armour bright,

With glance of kindled ire,
Doth change the sports of Chevy Chase

To conflict stern and dire.
Ye wis not that ye press the spot

Where Percy held his way



Across the marches in his pride,

The “choicest harts to slay;" And where the stout earl Douglas rode

Upon his milk-white steed, With "fifteen hundred Scottish spears,"

To stay the invader's deed. Ye wis not that ye press


spot Where, with his eagle eye King James and all his gallant train

To Flodden-field swept by.
The Queen was weeping in her bower

Amid her maids that day,
And on her cradled nursling's face

The tears like pearl drops lav; For madly 'gainst her native realm

Her royal husband went,
And led his flower of chivalry,

As to a tournament.
He led them on in power and pride;

But, ere the fray was o'er,
They on the blood-stained heather slept,

And he returned no more. Graze on, graze on, there's many a rill,

Bright sparkling through the glade, Where ye may freely slake your thirst,

Has mirrored many a blade.



There's many a wandering stream that flows

From Cheviot's terraced side,
Yet not one drop of warrior's gore

Distaineth now its tide.
For Scotia from her hills hath come,

And Albion o'er the Tweed,
To give the mountain breeze the feud

That made their noblest bleed;
And like two friends, around whose hearts

Some dire estrangement run,
Love all the better for the past;
And sit them down as one.

Mrs. Sigourney.

Three words of inward power I speak,

From month to mouth they ever fly;
The world for then we vainly seek,
Our hearts alone their home supply ;

Man is but vile and worthless dust,

When in these words he loseth trust. Freedom is man's, he free was made,

Though oft to chain and fetter born ;To other creed be not betray'd

By shouting throngs or tyrant's scorn,



The slave, when snapped his chain,

may scan

With brow erect his fellow man.

VIRTUE is not an empty sound,

In that let Man his course fulfil;
Then, though he stumble, he is found
Attaining to the better still.

Where reason fails, there trusted be,
A childlike, calm simplicity.

There is a God, whose will sublime

Rules all that all man's earth betides;
Exalted far o'er space and time
That high intelligence abides:

While all in changing circle sweeps,
One all-eternal will He keeps.

Guard then these words of power I speak,

From mouth to mouth that ever fly; Though the world for them in vain ye seek, Still let your hearts their homes supply: Man ne'er is berest of his worth, while

he Of a trusting faith in these words can be.

From the German of Schiller,



THE DEAD SKY-LARK. The sky-lark has perceived his prison door

Unclosed; for liberty the captive tries : Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor,

And in her grasp he flutters, pants,and dies. Lucy's own priss and Lucy's own dear bird, Her foster'd favourites both for many a

day, That which the tender-hearted girl preferrd,

She in her fondness knew not sooth to say. For if the sky-lark's pipe was shrill and

strong, And its rich tones the thrilling ear might

please, Yet Pussybel could breath a fireside song

As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees. Both knew her voice, and each alike would

seek Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to

gain, How faintly then may words her sorrow speak,

When by the one she sees the other slain.

« PreviousContinue »