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GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE.
GOD BLESS THI SILVER YURE.
(By permission of the Author.)
Like reawsty iron to feel,
Aw like to gripe as weel.
Becose o' bein poor,
God bless thi silver yure !
An' rest thi weary shanks,
Wi’ fortin' an' her pranks :
May tremble at her freawn;
As thee to tumble deawn.
Nor dainties rich an' rare,
Can sweeten simple fare ;
Thae's wit enough to know
Where tulips connot grow.
An' gettin' very owd,
To keep thi limbs fro' th' cowd:
I’ sich a suit as thine,
A fustian jacket fine.
A very noble prize ;
A beggar i' disguise.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE
TELL me not in mournful numbers
“Life is but an empty dream ;”. For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
A PSALM OF LIFE. Life is real ! life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal ; “ Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
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,
In the bivouac of Life,
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,
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.
H. W. Longfellov.
THE THREE SONS.
I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
mould; They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish
years. I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency, But that which others most admire is the thought which
fills his mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth
find. Strange questions doth he ask of me when we together
walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children
talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or
ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics
all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext, With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts
about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee-she teacheth him to
pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words
which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years
like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful
brow, I dare not think what I should feel were I to lose him now.
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ;
THE THREE SONS.
I do not think his light blue eye is like his brother's, keen. Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever
been; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender
feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love
revealing. When he walks with me, the countryfolk who pass us 122
the street Will speak their joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and
sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine, sent to gladden home and
hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may
prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love ; And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must
dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him.
I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell,
to dwell. To us for fourteen anxious months his infant smiles were
given, And then he bade farewell to earth and went to live in
heaven. I cannot tell what form his is, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph
brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he
doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not
reveal ; But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at
rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving
breast. I linow his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh,