And then he turned unto the book, And all his comfortable words, He read, and of the widow's mite, As water to the parched soil, Thus thro' the midnight did they read Until the dawn of day, And then came in the woodman's son To fetch the book away. All quick and troubled was his speech, His face was pale with dread, For he said, the King had made a law That the book should not be read For it was such fearful heresy, The holy Abbot said.’ MIDNIGHT HYMN. Anon: STAR-GEMMED floor of the land I love, What are the many glittering pearls, Schoolmen write in the lettered page, Where the wolf and the lamb in concord meet, Where the leopard harmless lives; And where, undewed with the sweat of man, The field its harvest gives: Where sin hath shed no withering blight, Many, if such ye be, fair worlds, So let them! More ambitious, I I would not dwell in these, but with They may be near to the pearly gates, THE WOOD-CUTTER'S SONG. WELCOME, red and roundy sun, Joyful are the thoughts of home, Though to leave your pretty song, Yet to-morrow is not long, If I stop and stare about, Well I know how things will be, Judy will be looking out Every now and then for me. So, fare ye well! and hold your tongues, All day long I love the oaks; Wife and children all are there, Soon as ever I get in, When my faggot down I fling, Little prattlers, they begin Teasing me to talk and sing. Welcome, red and roundy sun, Joyful are the thoughts of home, FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. Walter Scott. HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark : The deer half seen are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending And the wild breeze thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee. Yet once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp! Yet once again forgive my feeble sway; And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way Thro' secret woes the world has never known, |