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Not as the conqueror comes, they, the true-hearted, came ;
fame; Not as the flying come, in silence, and in fear They shook the depths of the desert gloom with their hymns of lofty
cheer, Amidst the storm they sang; this the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang to the anthem of the
free! The ocean-eagle soared from his nest by the white wave's foam; [home. And the rocking pines of the forest roared :-such was their welcome There were men with hoary hair amidst that pilgrim band : Why had they come to wither there, away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, and the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-No; 'twas a faith's pure shrine.
call that holy ground which first their brave feet trod. [God. They have left unstained what there they found-FREEDOM TO WORSHIP
THE SANDS OF DEE.—( Canon Kingsley.)
By kind permission of Messrs. Macmillan and Co.
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Dee !
And all alone went she.
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see ;
And never home came she.
A tress of golden hair,
Of drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea.
Among the stakes of Dee !
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea ;
Across the sands of Dee.
WE ARE SEVEN.—(Wordsworth.) I met a little cottage girl : she was eight years old she said; her hair was thick with many a curl that clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, and she was wildly clad; her eyes were fair, and very fair; her beauty made me glad. • Sisters and brothers, little maid, how many may you be?” “How many ? seven in all,” she said, and wondering looked at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; and two of us at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea. Two of us in the churchyard lie, my sister and my brother; and in the churchyard cottage, I dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, and two are gone to sea; yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, sweet maid, how this may be?” Then did the little maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; two of us in the churchyard lie, beneath the churchyard tree.” “ You run about, my little maid, your limbs they are alive ; if two are in the churchyard laid, then ye are only five.” “ Their graves are green, they may be seen,” the little maid replied; “twelve steps or more from my mother's door, and they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, my kerchief there I hem; and there upon the ground I sit-I sit and sing to them. And often after sunset, sir, when it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, and eat my supper there. The first that died was little Jane; in bed she moaning lay, till' God released her of her pain; and then she went away. So in the churchyard she was laid; and when the grass was dry, together round her grave we played, my brother John and I. And when the ground was white with snow, and I could run and slide, my brother John was forced to go, and he lies by her side. “How many are you then,” said I, “if they two are in heaven?” Quick
was the little maid's reply—“O master! we seven.” “ But they are dead-those two are dead! their spirits are in heaven!”_'Twas throwing words away; for still the little maid would have her will, and said, “ Nay, we are seven !”
THE MOUNTAIN DAISY.-(Burns.)
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem.
Thou bonnie gem.
Wi' spreckled breast,
The purpling East.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
O'clod or stane,
In humble guise ;
And low thou lies!
Of prudent lore,
And whelm him o'er !
By human pride or cunning driven
To mis’ry's brink,
He, ruined, sink !
:- no distant date ;
Full on thy bloom,
Shall be thy doom ! A PSALM OF LIFE.-(Longfellow.) 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. 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 find 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 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 shipwrecked 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.
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave
How vain was their boasting !- The Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.
THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.-(Farmer.)