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There, filling with thy gale,

Upon the starlit Sea,
The white and rustling sail,

Of many an Argosy

Which rest upon the Bay,

Like Seagulls fast asleep, Whilst moonbeams round them play,

And sportive billows leap.

Anon amid the Pines

That skirt a mountain road, Whose rugged pathway winds

By many a lone abode,

Thy minstrel Song is heard,

Deep, vigorous, and free, Fresh as the Carol of a bird

And full of Melody.

Thy voices are like Friends

Lost in the long ago ; Whom Heaven kindly sends

To woo us from our woe.

I feel their soothing thrill

All through my being leap, Bright as the sparkling rill,

Strong as refreshing sleep.

Thus thou dost cheer me on,

Breath of the Evening wind, Till weariness is gone,

And care is left behind.


FRIEND, wouldst thou hear me speak

Of one I love full well ; Then listen to my verse,

As I the Story tell.

A little Village nestling down

Amid a Yorkshire dale ;
A rural Cottage near the Beck,

The centre of my Tale.

Its walls are cob of ancient date,

The roof is thatched, and green With lichens, moss, and waving grass,

And house-leeks up between.

Low is the door with wooden latch,

And trellis-work around; Where oft mid shadow of the porch

The owner's seat is found.

When Summer days are warm and fair,

And bees go humming by; And like a blossom flits along

The beauteous butterfly;

When garden plots are all aglow

With wealth of fragrant flowers, And clustering roses bud and blow

Through all the balmy hours ;

Then, with a Homer on his knee,

Or book of Holy Writ,
Beneath the shadow of the porch

He loveth oft to sit.

But when stern Winter wraps the earth

With many a snowy fold ; And days are short and nights are long,

And winds are fierce and cold ;

He seeks the shelter of his cot,

The comfort of his chair ;
And whilst the Winter wars without,

A Summer's peace is there.

There glows the ruddy fire of peat,

A kettle swings above;
A cat lies sleeping on the hearth,
And everything is snug.

Dark shelves of oak hang on the walls,

Replete with golden store
Of brilliant Authors long since dead,

And Greek and Latin lore.

Behind a Screen of antique make,

That cuts the room in two,
And where the tiny window-panes

Permit a distant View,

There oft you'll find my Worthy Friend,

As speeds the day along, Conversing with the Ancient Bards

In lays of glorious song.

A tall Old Man with silver hair,

And cheeks like apples red; With honest eyes of tender blue,

That o'er his face doth shed

A lustre of the Olden Days,

In years long, long ago,
When with his Sunny Youthfulness,

His soul was all aglow.

When in the old Cathedral School

He taught the growing Youth To conjugate, decline, construe,

With judgment and with truth.

But now his Teaching Days are done,

His Friends have passed away ; Of those he made in Manhood's Morn,

Scarce one remains to-day.

Like ripe Fruits drop from off a tree,

He saw them one by one
Fall from the Tree of Life away ;

They ripened and were gone.

And now he loves to contemplate

On those whom once he knew ; And trusts that the Great Architect

Those Friendships will renew.

I often went to visit him

Towards the Close of Day, When Evening tints were in the West,

And all the Sky was gay.

There would I stand and look awhile

Before I entered in,
And view the Old Man in his chair-

A picture for a king.

Upon his brow the golden light

Of Eventide did play, And in his Eyes the Light of Heaven

Was brighter than the Day.

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