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Do they miss me at home, do they miss me
At morning, at noon, or at night?

And lingers one gloomy shade round them
That only my presence can light?
And joys less invitingly welcome,
And pleasures less hale than before,
Because one is missed from the circle,
Because I am with them no more?

Because I am with them no more?

THE SWORD OF BUNKER HILL.

Wallace.

He lay upon his dying bed;

His eye was growing dim,

When with a feeble voice he call'd

His weeping son to him;

"Weep not, my boy!" the veteran said,
"I bow to Heaven's high will,

But quickly from yon antlers bring
The sword of Bunker Hill."

The sword was brought, the soldier's eye
Lit with a sudden flame;

And as he grasped the ancient blade,
He murmured Warren's name;
Then said, "My boy, I leave you gold,
But what is richer still,

I leave you, mark me, mark me now,
The sword of Bunker Hill.

"Twas on that dread immortal day,
I dared the Briton's band,

A captain raised this blade on me,
I tore it from his hand;

And while the glorious battle raged,
It lightened freedom's will,

For, boy, the God of freedom blessed

The sword of Bunker Hill."

"Oh, keep the sword!"-his accents broke

A smile and he was dead

But his wrinkled hand still grasped the blade
Upon the dying bed.

The son remains; the sword remains

Its glory growing still

And twenty millions bless the sire,

And sword of Bunker Hill.

THREE FISHERS.

Charles Kingsley.

Three fishers went sailing out into the west,

Out into the west as the sun went down;

Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;

For men must work, and women must weep,

And there's little to earn, and many to keep;

Tho' the harbor bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,

Tho' storms be sudden and waters deep;

And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands,

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,

For those who will never come back to the town;

For men must work and women must weep,

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

ROBIN ADAIR.

Keppel.

What's this dull town to me?

Robin's not near.

What was't I wish'd to see,

What wish'd to hear?

Where's all the joy and mirth

Made this town a heav'n on earth?

Oh, they're all fled with thee,

Robin Adair.

What made th' assembly shine?

Robin Adair.

What made the ball so fine?

Robin was there.

What, when the play was o'er,

What made my heart so sore?
Oh, it was parting with

Robin Adair.

But now thou'rt cold to me,

Robin Adair.

But now thou'rt cold to me,

Robin Adair.

Yet he I lov'd so well,

Still in my heart shall dwell;

Oh, I can ne'er forget

Robin Adair.

PONTIAC'S TRAIL.

Warren W. Lamport.

Through the forests dark and deep,
Where the gloomy shadows creep,
And the night winds wail;
Deep in dust and leafy mold,
Worn by countless feet of old,
Stretches Pontiac's Trail.

O'er it one time wolf and bear,

Skulking from the forest lair,

Wandered to and fro;

And from out the stormy cloud
Screamed the eagle, shrill and loud,
To his mate below.

Here the wounded, frightened prey

In the thicket hid away

From the hunter bold;

Here, beneath the pine tree's shade,
Oft the lover to his maid

Love's sweet story told.

And tall, painted forms swept by,
With the dreadful battle-cry

Sounding through the gloom.
Painted forms that came again
Proudly bearing captive men
To a captive's doom.

Comes no more the captive train;
Swells no more the warlike strain
Through the solitude;

Vanished every living trace
Of the olden, primal race,
Children of the wood.

Yet, methinks when pale moonbeams
Fall upon a world at dreams,
And the night winds wail,

Dusky forms in a single file

Still sweep through the forest aisle,
Over Pontiac's Trail.

MICHIGAN, MY HOME.

William B. Hamilton.

There is a land, of all beneath the sun
As rich and fair as e'er he shines upon;
Two broad peninsulas spread far and wide,
Which four great lakes encircle and divide;
Those mighty waters their broad arms extend
And clasp this land as one would clasp a friend,
And to each breeze a genial influence lend.

Upon the bosom of their swelling tides,
The busy bark of commerce safely rides;
And in their teeming depths, so cool and clear,
The finny tribes in countless shoals appear,
And bring the fisherman a golden store,
Who plies his trade along the shelving shore.
And here and there across the broad domain
Of forest-crested hill and fertile plain,
Slow-winding rivers, glancing in the sun,
Enrich the valleys as they shoreward run;
No finer scheme appears in Nature's plan
To bless the labors of the husbandman.

After his keen-edged axe and horny hand
Have swept the forest from the mellow land,
When next the harvest moon with gentle mien
Looks down, amazed, upon a changeful scene,
Lo, waving harvests deck the happy plain,
And all the landscape laughs with golden gain.
There, fields of wheat bend low the ripened ear;
Tall ranks of maize stand softly rustling here;
Luxuriant oats present their dark array,
And human hearts, like Nature's face, are gay.

Look to the north, when Winter spreads his snows,
And see the lumberer deal his sturdy blows.
The lofty pine bows low its graceful crest
And yields its timbered wealth to East and West,
Look further, still, where rugged hills arise;
There the dark miner his vocation plies;
Blasting the hills, he 'xplores the toilsome mine
Where the rent rocks with hidden luster shine,
And silver, copper, iron, and coal produce
A wondrous store for every human use.

Such are the gifts which Nature's lavish hand
Has poured upon this highly favored land.
And when within this noble realm we see
A people brave, intelligent, and free,
Dwelling in peace in pleasant, stately homes
Where one might think no trouble ever comes;
When we behold the landscape thickly strewn,
As valleys with the leaves of autumn blown,
With lovely farms bedecked with orchard trees,
With noble cities, towns, and villages,
With churches topped with heaven-pointing spires,
With schoolhouses where Learning never tires,
With all that one might wish or hope to find
To satisfy the most fastidious mind,—
Well might one say, if from some foreign strand:
"Here will I stay; here's my adopted land."
Or if, perchance, by fav'ring fate more blest,
Here first a mother's tender arms caressed,
What patriot pride should thrill thro' all the man
As he exclaims: "My home! My Michigan!"

NATURE'S NOBLEMAN.

Martin F. Tupper.

Away with false fashion, so calm and so chill,
Where pleasure itself cannot please;
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still
Affects to be quite at ease;

For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank,

The freest is first in the band,

And nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
Is a man with a heart in his hand!

Fearless in honesty, gentle, yet just,
He warmly can love and can hate,

Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust,
To fashion's intolerant state;

For best in good breeding, and highest in rank,
Though lowly or poor in the land,

Is nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
The man with his heart in his hand!

His fashion is passion, sincere and intense,

His impulses, simple and true;

Yet tempered by judgment, and taught by good sense,

And cordial with me, and with you;

For the finest in manners, as highest in rank,

Is you, man! or you, man! who stand

Nature's own Nobleman, friendly and frank,
A man with a heart in his hand!

1

THE YANKEE BOY.

John Pierpont.

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And, in the education of the lad,

No little part that implement hath had.

His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart,
His elder popgun, with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin leaf trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy.

To these succeed

His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,

His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;

Or, if his father lives upon the shore,

You'll see his ship, beamı ends upon the floor,

Full rigged, with raking masts and timbers stanch,
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any gim-crack, musical or mute,
A plow, a coach, an organ, or a flute;

Make you a locomotive, or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating dock,

Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;
Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,

From a child's rattle to a seventy-four.

Make it, said I? Ay, when he undertakes it,

He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea,
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or upon land, to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.

THE NEEDLE.

Samuel Woodworth.

The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling
In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille;
And seek admiration by vauntingly telling
Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill;
But give me the fair one, in country or city,
Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart,

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