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Who sang to him night and day

The rhymes of the universe.

And whenever the way seemed long,

Or his heart began to fail,
She would sing a more wonderful song,

Or tell a more marvellous tale.

So she keeps him still a child,

And will not let him go,
Though at times his heart beats wild

For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;

Though at times he hears in his dreams

The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams

From glaciers clear and cold;

And the mother at home says, “ Hark!

For his voice I listen and yearn;
It is growing late and dark,

And my boy does not return!” – Longfellow.

GOOD LIFE – LONG LIFE

It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear.

A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May,
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measure life may perfect be.

- Johnson.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not 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,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed 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'll 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.

OLD IRONSIDES

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see

That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;—
The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more !

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,

Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,

And white were waves below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,

Or know the conquered knee;-
The harpies of the shore shall pluck

The eagle of the sea !

Oh, better that her tattered hulk

Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,

And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale ! - Holmes.

THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER

It was a hundred years ago,

When, by the woodland ways,
The traveler saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath the hill, whose rocky side

O’erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,

A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs.

The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts

In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed

A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glitter like a star

In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill,

She cropped the sprouting leaves, And here her rustling steps were heard

On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon

Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer

There grazed a spotted fawn.

The cottage dame forbade her son

To aim the rifle here;
“It were a sin,” she said, “to harm

Or fright that friendly deer.

“ This spot has been my pleasant home

Ten peaceful years and more; And ever, when the moonlight shines,

She feeds before our door.

“ The red men say that here she walked

A thousand moons ago; They never raise the war-whoop here,

And never twang the bow.

“I love to watch her as she feeds,

And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts

The place in which we dwell.”

The youth obeyed, and sought for game

In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,

The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time

Ile ranged the wild in vain, Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,

And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve

Shone with a mingling light; The deer, upon the grassy mead, Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,

And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.

Away, into the neighboring wood,

The startled creature flew,

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