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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!

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,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

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,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.

We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

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,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

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;
Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found;
Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound,
I'm always in black, and I'm always in white;
I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light-
In form, too, I differ-I'm thick and I'm thin,
I've no flesh and no bones, yet I'm covered with
skin:

I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute;

I sing without voice, without speaking confute.
I'm English, I'm German, I'm French and I'm

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
Give to each faint and languid breeze
Its rich and rare perfume:

Let Portugal and haughty Spain
Display their orange groves;
And France exult her vines to train
Around her trim alcoves:

Old England has a tree as strong,
As stately as them all,

As worthy of a minstrel's song
In cottage and in hall.

'Tis not the yew-tree, though it lends
Its greenness to the grave;
Nor willow, though it fondly bends
Its branches o'er the wave;

Nor birch, although its slender tress
Be beautifully fair,—

As graceful in its loveliness

As maiden's flowing hair.

'Tis not the poplar, though its height
May from afar be seen;

Nor beech, although its boughs bedight
With leaves of glossy green.

All these are fair, but they may fling
Their shade unsung by me;
My favourite and the forest's king,
The British Oak shall be !

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
The zephyr's gentle sigh,

As late and long in autumn wears
A deeper, richer dye.

Type of an honest English heart,
It opes not at a breath;

But having opened, plays its part
Until it sinks in death,

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