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With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrows for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place, where human harvests grow!

Longfellow.

78.—SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN
WAYS.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be:
But she is in her grave, and, oh!

The difference to me!
I travelled among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England, did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time: for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed

The bowers where Lucy played; And thine, too, is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed.

Wordsworth.

79.— THE SAILOR.

The sailor sighs as sinks his native shore,
As all its lessening turrets bluely fade;

He climbs the mast to feast his eyes once more,
And busy fancy fondly lends her aid.

Ah! now, each dear domestic scene he knew,
Recalled and cherished in a foreign clime,

Charms with the magic of a moonlight view,
Its colours mellowed, not impaired, by time.

True as the needle, homeward points his heart,
Through all the horrors of the stormy main;

This, the last wish that would with life depart,
To meet the smile of her he loves again.

When morn first faintly draws her silver line,
Or eve's grey cloud descends to drink the wave;

When sea and sky in midnight-darkness join,
Still, still he sees the parting look she gave.

Her gentle spirit, lightly hovering o'er,
Attends his little bark from pole to pole;

And, when the beating billows round him roar,
Whispers sweet hope to soothe his troubled soul.

Carved is her name in many a spicy grove,
In many a plantain-forest, waving wide;

Where dusky youths in painted plumage rove,
And giant palms o'er-arch the golden tide.

But lo! at last he comes with crowded sail!

Lo, o'er the cliff what eager figures bend!
And hark, what mingled murmurs swell the gale!

In each he hears the welcome of a friend.

—'Tis she, 'tis she herself! she waves her hand!

Soon is the anchor cast, the canvass furled; Soon through the whitening surge he springs on land,

And clasps the maid he singled from the world.

Rogers.

80.—THE HOMES OF ENGLAND.

The stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound

Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night
What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childish tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime

Floats through their woods at morn;
All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains,
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.J
Through glowing orchards forth they peep,

Each from its nook of leaves;
And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!

Long, long in hut and hall
May hearts of native proof be reared

To guard each hallowed wall!
And green for ever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God!

Mrs. Hemans.

81 — ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A
BOISTEROUS WINTER'S EVENING.

What way does the Wind come? What way does he go?

He rides over the water, and over the snow,

Through wood, and through vale; and o'er rocky height,

Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see:

But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook

And ring a sharp 'larum; but if you should look,

There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow

Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,

And softer than if it were covered with silk.

Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,

Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock.

—Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in his place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about:
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big,
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,

And growls as if he would fix his claws

Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle

Drive them down, like a man in a battle:—

But let him rage round; he does us no harm,

We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;

Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read,—but that half stifled knell,

Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

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