XI. THE HAPPY MAN. BY WILLIAM COWPER. not; He is the happy man, whose life e'en now Though more sublimely, he o'erlooks the world. Of virtue, and whom virtue, fruit of faith, He seeks not hers, for he has proved them vain. She makes familiar with a world unseen, XII. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. BY WILLIAM THOM. laid; When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame, Now rests in the mools where their mammie is pure The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed, head; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn, Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there, While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn. An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Oh! speak him na harshly-he trembles the He O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair! In bends to your bidding, he blesses your smile : their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn, The sister wha sang o'er his softly rock'd bed, That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn! XIII. OLD LETTERS! OH THEN SPARE THEM! Old letters! Oh then spare them-they are priceless for their age! Old am I too, and grey-hair'd now-deserted and alone, Old letters! here is one-the hand of youth is on its face; * Oh! ye are now the only links that bind us to the past; XIV. HOME. RY JAMES MONTGOMERY. There is a land, of every land the pride, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside In the clear heav'n of her delightful eye Art thou a man? a patriot? look around; XV. THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG. BY BERNARD BARTON. Though Scotia's lofty mountains, When 'mid their charms I wander, While many who have left thee, Seem to forget thy name, Fair as the glittering waters For their dear sakes I love thee, Thy shamrock ever green; Nor darken nor defile, XVI. A PSALM OF LIFE. What the Young Man said to the Psalmist. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, BY H. W. LONGFELLOW. "Life is but an empty dream!" And the grave is not its goal; And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, act in the living Present! Heart within and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time: Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwreck'd brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. XVII BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, 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, Nor in sheet, nor 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 hollowed 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 told the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was suddenly 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 in his glory! XVIII. TWENTY YEARS AGO-THE SCHOOL-BOY'S REMINISCENCE. I've wandered in the village, Tom,-I've sat beneath the tree,- The grass is just as green, Tom,—barefooted boys at play The old school-house is altered now, the benches are replaced The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech, Near by the spring, upon the elm, you know I cut your name,- My eyelids had been dry, Tom, but tears come in my eyes, And some are in the church-yard laid-some sleep beneath the sea, -Anonymous. XIX. THE BLIND BOY'S BEEN AT PLAY, MOTHER.* The Blind Boy's been at play, Mother, And merry games we had; We led him on our way, mother, And every step was glad. But when we found a starry flower, And praised its varied hue, A tear came trembling down his cheek, Just like a drop of dew. We took him to the mill, mother, Where falling waters made A rainbow o'er the rill, mother, As golden sun-rays played; But when we shouted at the scene, (By Eliza Cook.) We asked him why he wept, mother, Whene'er we found the spots Where the periwinkle crept, mother, O'er wild Forget-me-not's; "Ah me!" he said, while tears ran down As fast as summer showers, "It is because I cannot see, The sunshine and the flowers." Oh, that poor sightless boy, mother, And when I see the dancing stream, I kneel upon the meadowed sod, * Many of the following pieces are inserted for recitation by girls. XX. WHY DO THE FLOWERS BLOOM, MOTHER? (By J. E. Carpenter.) Why do the flow'rets bloom, mother, Why do the sweet flowers bloom; And brightest those we rear'd, mother, Around my brother's tomb?" To fill the world with gladness, My child, were flow'rets given,To crown the earth with beauty, And show the road to Heaven!" "Then why do the flow'rets fade, mother, Why do the sweet flowers fade, When winter's dreary cloud, mother, Earth's brighter scenes pervade? My child, those flow'rs that wither, "And shall not those that die, mother, Those beauteous flow'rs restore?" Yes, yes, my child, such powers To human flow'rs are given, Here earth's frail flow'rs may blossom, But we may rise-in Heaven !" XXI. INFANTINE INQUIRIES. "Tell me, O mother! when I grow old, "Calm thy young thoughts, my own fair child! Will my hair, which my sisters say is like The fancies of youth and age are beguiled; gold, Grow grey as the old man's, weak and poor, Who ask'd for alms at our pillar'd door? As he, when he told us his tale of woe? Though pale grow thy cheeks and thy hair turn gray, Time cannot steal the soul's youth away! There is a land of which thou hast heard me Will my hand then shake, and my eyes be speak, dim? Tell me, O mother! will I grow like him? Where age never wrinkles the dweller's cheek! "For he knew that those with whom he had play'd, In his heart's young joy, 'neath their cottage shade Whose love he shared, when their songs and mirth Brightened the gloom of this sinful earth— Whose names from our world had passed away, As flowers in the breath of an autumn dayHe knew that they, with all suffering done, Encircled the throne of the Holy One! "He spoke of a home, where in childhood's glee Of the sun's fair light, by his own blue streams:- Though ours be a pillar'd and lofty home, Where want with his pale train never may come, Oh! scorn not the poor with the scorner's jest, Who seek in the shade of our hall to rest; For He who hath made them poor may soon Darken the sky of our glowing noon, And leave us with woe in the world's bleak wild! Oh! soften the griefs of the poor, my child!" |