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"Stop thief ! stop thief ! — a highwayman!”

Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that pass'd that way.

Did join in the pursuit.
And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;
The toll-men thinking as before,

That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;
Nor stopp'd till where he had got up

He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king,

And Gilpin long live he ;
And when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see !



PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises ;
Long as there's a sun that sets,

Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,

They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star ;
Up and down the heavens they go,

Men that keep a mighty rout

I'm as great as they, I trow,

Since the day I found thee out,
Little Flower! I'll make a stir,
Like a sage astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met

I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more and yet,

'Twas a face I did not know;
Tbou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about her nest,

Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast

Like a careless Prodigal ;
Telling tales about the Sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them ; I aver

That they all are wanton wooers;
But the thrifty cottager,

Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, thou art come! Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit ! Careless of thy neighbourhood,

Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor and in the wood,

In the lane ; there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill tefal the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours !
Buttercups, that will be seen,

Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien ;

They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine.
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,

Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,

Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!


Tur shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner, with the strange device,

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,


In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,

Excelsior! “ Try not the Pass!” the old man said, “Dark lowers the tempest overhead, “ The roaring torrent is deep and wide!” And loud that clarion voice replied,

Excelsior! “O stay!” the maiden said, “and rest “ Thy weary head upon this breast !” A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh,

Excelsior! “ Beware the pine-trees withered branch ! “Beware the awful avalanche ! ” This was the peasant's last good night! A voice replied, far up the height,

Excelsior !
At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried, in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner, with the strange device,

There, in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful he lay,

And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,




YE Mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the storm winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave! —
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders on her native oak,
She quells the floods below,

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