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So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;

But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am pass'd away.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine—
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun-
For ever and for ever with those just souls and true !—

And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come;

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast-
"And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.”

15.-ROSABELLE.-Sir W. Scott.

O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell ;

Soft is the note, and sad the lay, that mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

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Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, and, gentle lady, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, nor tempt the stormy frith to-day. The blackening wave is edged with white; to inch and rock the sea-mews fly ; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

Last night, the gifted Seer did view a wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; why cross the gloomy frith to-day ?” "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir to-night at Roslin leads the ball; But that my lady-mother there sits lonely in her castle hall. 'Tis not because the ring they ride, and Lindesay at the ring rides well; But that my sire the wine will chide, if 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." -O'er Roslin all that dreary night a wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, and redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, it ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, and seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,—
Each Baron, for a sable shroud, sheath'd in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire within, around, deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, and glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high, blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—
So still they blaze, when Fate is nigh the lordly line of high St. Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold lie buried within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-but the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !
And each St. Clair was buried there with candle, and with book, and knell ;
-But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung the dirge of lovely
Rosabelle !

16.-THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD.-Longfellow.

This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling,

Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms;
But, from their silent pipes, no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the Death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere

Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer-
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song-
And loud, amid the universal clamour,

O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din;
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis

Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder,

The diapason of the cannonade....

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,

With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies ?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror,

Were half the wealth, bestowed on camps and courts,

Given to redeem the human mind from error,

There were no need of arsenals nor forts:

The warrior's name would be a name abhorrèd!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead

Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

-Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter... and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,

I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"
Peace!...And no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War's great organ shakes the skies!
But, beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of Love arise.

17.—THE DYING BOY.-Mrs. Hemans.

I knew a boy, whose infant feet had trod upon the blossoms of some seven springs; and, when the eighth came round, and called him out to gambol in the sun, he turned away and sought his chamber-to lie down and die! 'Twas night: he summoned his accustomed friends, and, in this wise, bestowed his last bequest:

1 "Mother! I'm dying now! There is deep suffocation in my breast, as if some heavy hand my bosom prest; and on my brow 2 I feel the cold sweat stand my lips grow dry and tremulous, and my breath comes feebly up. Oh! tell me, is this death?...Mother! your hand-3 Here-lay it on my wrist, and place the other thus, beneath my head; and say, sweet mother! say, when I am dead, shall I be missed? Never, beside your

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knee, shall I kneel down again at night to pray; nor with the morning wake, and sing the lay you taught to me! Oh, at the time of prayer, when you look round and see a vacant seat, you will not wait then for my coming feet-you'll miss me there!... 6 Father! I'm going home! To the good home you speak of-that blest land where it is one bright summer always, and storms do not come. 7 I must be happy then; from pain and death you say I shall be free-that sickness never enters there, and we shall meet again! . . . 8 Brother!—the little spot I used to call my garden, where long hours we've stayed to watch the budding trees and flowers, forget it not! Plant there some box or pine-something that lives in winter, and will be a verdant offering to my memory, and call it mine! . . . 10 Sister! my young rose-tree, that all the spring has been my pleasant care, just putting forth its leaves so green and fair, I give to thee. 11 And when its roses bloom, I shall be gone away-my short life done! But will you not bestow a single one upon my tomb?... 12 Now, Mother! sing the tune you sang last night—I'm weary, and must sleep! Who was it called my name?—Nay, do not weep; you'll all come soon !"

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Morning spread over earth her rosy wings-and that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, lay on his couch asleep! The gentle air came through the open window, freighted with the savoury odours of the early Spring ;he breathed it not! The laugh of passers-by jarred like a discord in some mournful tune, but marrèd not his slumbers-He was dead!

18.—THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.-Mrs. E. B. Browning.

1 Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers-and that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows; the young birds are chirping in the nest; the young fawns are playing with the shadows; the young flowers are blowing toward the west;-but the young, young children, O my brothers!-they are weeping bitterly!—they are weeping in the playtime of the others, in the country of the free. 2 Do you question the young children in the sorrow, why their tears are falling so?-the old man may weep for his To-morrow, which is lost in Long Ago;-the old tree is leafless in the forest-the old year is ending in the frost-the old wound, if stricken, is the sorest—the old hope is hardest to be lost! But the young, young children, O my brothers, do you ask them why they stand weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, in our happy Fatherland ?

3 They look up with their pale and sunken faces, and their looks are sad to see; for the man's grief abhorrent, draws and presses down the

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cheeks of infancy-"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary; our young feet," they say, are very weak! few paces have we taken, yet are weary-our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the old why they weep, and not the children; for the outside-earth is cold,-and we young ones stand without, in our bewildering...and the graves are for the old!" 4" True," say the young children, "it may happen that we die 'before our time.' Little Alice died last year-the grave is shapen like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her—was no room for any work in the close clay: from the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.' If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, with your ear down, little Alice never cries !could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, for the smile has time for growing in her eyes; and merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in the shroud, by the kirk-chime! It is good, when it happens," say the children," that we die before our time."

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5 Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking death in life, as best to have! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, with a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city-sing out, children, as the little thrushes do-pluck your handfuls of the meadowcowslips pretty-laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, Are your cowslips of the meadows like our weeds a-near the mine? Leave us quiet, in the dark of the coal-shadows, from your pleasures fair and fine! 6 66 For oh," say the children, we are weary, and we cannot run or leap ;-if we cared for any meadows, it were merely to drop down in them, and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping-we fall upon our faces, trying to go; and, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, the reddest flower would look as pale as snow. For, all day, we drag our burden tiring, through the coal-dark underground;-or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron, in the factories, round and round. 7 For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,—their wind comes in our faces,-till our hearts turn-our heads, with pulses burning, and the walls turn in their places;-turns the sky in the high window, blank and reeling-turns the long light that droppeth down the wall-turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling-all are turning, all the day, and we with all!-and, all day, the iron wheels are droning; and sometimes we could pray, ‘O ye wheels' (breaking out in a mad moaning), 'stop! be silent for to-day!"""

8 Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing for a moment, mouth to mouth-let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion is not all the life God fashions or reveals;-let them prove their inward souls,

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