Shine out blue so clearly;
I might walk the showers between,
In the meadows fresh and green,
That I love so dearly.
Rain, rain,
Who'd complain,
If you'd give us measure?
Hinder children's pleasure, When you still will pour away On the one half-holiday,
Which is all our treasure.
Drop, drop, drop, on leaf or stalk,
Flower and spray
Without stay,
Or I shall not have my walk.-TOM HOOD.
A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.
A WET sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lea.
O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high ;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark, the music, mariners;
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.
ALLAN CUNNINgham, 1784–1842.
FOR 'tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What! is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye?
SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616.
WHERE's the blind child, so admirably fair,
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair
That waves in every breeze? He's often seen
Beside yon cottage wall, or on the green,
With others matched in spirit and in size,
Health on their cheeks and rapture in their eyes.
That full expanse of voice to childhood dear,
Soul of their sports, is duly cherished here:
And hark, that laugh is his, that jovial cry;
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by,
And runs the giddy course with all his might,
A very child in everything but sight;
With circumscribed, but not abated powers,
Play, the great object of his infant hours.
In many a game he takes a noisy part,
And shows the native gladness of his heart;
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent,
The new suggestion and the quick assent;
The grove invites, delight fills every breast-
To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest,
Away they start; leave balls and hoops behind,
And one companion leave-the boy is blind!
His fancy paints their distant paths so gay,
That childish fortitude awhile gives way :
He feels his dreadful loss; yet short the pain,
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again.
Pondering how best his moments to employ,
He sings his little songs of nameless joy;
Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour,
And plucks by chance the white and yellow flower;
Smoothing their stems, while, resting on his knees,
He binds a nosegay which he never sees;
Along the homeward path then feels his way,
Lifting his brow against the shining day,
And with a playful rapture round his eyes,
Presents a sighing parent with the prize.
ROBERT BLOOMFIELD, 1766-1823.
TRUST IN GOD, AND DO THE RIGHT.
COURAGE, brother! do not stumble,
Though thy path be dark as night;
There's a star to guide the humble,
"Trust in God, and do the right."
Though the road be long and dreary,
And the goal be out of sight,
Foot it bravely, strong or weary;
"Trust in God, and do the right."
Perish policy and cunning,
Perish all that fears the light;
Whether losing, whether winning,
"Trust in God, and do the right."
Fly all forms of guilty passion,
Fiends can look like angels bright;
Heed no custom, school, or fashion,
"Trust in God, and do the right."
Some will hate thee, some will love thee,
Some will flatter, some will slight;
Cease from man, and look above thee,
"Trust in God, and do the right."
Simple rule and surest guiding,
Inward peace and shining light ;
Star upon our path abiding,
"Trust in God, and do the right."
GOOD name, in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls;
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; "Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he, that filches from me my good name,
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
HOHENLINDEN.
ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet;
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
|