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So, though my tears were blinding me,
To come again to you ;
And when I told him true,
'I will go with you, child,' he said ; 'God sends me to this dying bed.'
Mother, he's here, hard by.”While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.
The bridle on his neck flung free,
Pressed close his bonny bay;
Than those stood there that day.
So, while the little maiden spoke,
Looked on with glistening eye
Preached—“All is vanity.”
But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,
He stepped to where she lay; And kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, “I am a minister
My sister, let us pray."
And well, withouten book or stole,
Into the dying ear
And death's dark shadows clear.
He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
Of God's most bless'd decree,
“ Be merciful to me."
He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil,
In patience, faith, and love-
Of happiness above.
Then-as the spirit ebbed away,
That peaceful it might pass ;
Close round on the green grass.
Who reined their coursers back,
Had wandered from their track.
Back each man reined his pawing steed,
In silence at his side;
wholesome sight and good
That day for mortal pride :
And central in the ring,
REV, G. CRABBE. THE ANGELS' SONG.
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
To touch their harps of gold : “ Peace to the earth, goodwill to men
From heaven's all-gracious King ;”The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven sky they come
With peaceful wings unfurled ; And still their heavenly music floats
O’er all the weary world : Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on heavenly wing, And ever o'er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.
Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered longBeneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong; And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring : Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing !
And ye, beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low, Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow; Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing : Oh! rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing !
For, lo! the days are hastening on,
By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
Its ancient splendours fling,
E. H. SEARS.
MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark,
On a breeze from the northward free;
Or the swan through the summer sea.
That guard famed Staffa round.
The cormorant had found ;
That Nature's voice might seem to say,
Sir WALTER SOOTT.
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry.”
“Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle,
This dark and stormy water ?”— “O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle ;
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together ; For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover ?”.
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief -- I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,