And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, Longfellow. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, NOT As his corse to the rampart we hurried: Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast; Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow. Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory! Wolfe. I'M A BOOK. 'M a strange contradiction: I'm new and I'm old, I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold; I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute; I sing without voice, without speaking confute. Dutch; Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much; I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages, And no monarch alive has so many pages. Hannah More. THE ENGLISH OAK. LET India boast its spicy trees, Whose fruit and gorgeous bloom Let Portugal and haughty Spain Old England has a tree as strong, As worthy of a minstrel's song 'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends Nor birch, although its slender tress As graceful in its loveliness As maiden's flowing hair. 'Tis not the poplar, though its height Nor beech, although its boughs bedight All these are fair, but they may fling Its stem, though rough, is stout and sound; Its giant branches throw Their arms in shady blessings round, O'er man and beast below; Its leaf, though late in spring it shares As late and long in autumn wears Type of an honest English heart, But having opened, plays its part |