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His name shall ascend in the prayers of the free”.

“ Beware !” said the foe,,"we are strong; The minstrel is safe, but another than he

Might have paid with his life for his song !"


O'ER the blue ocean gleaming,
She sees a distant ship,

As small to view

As the white sea-mew
Whose wings in the billows dip.
“Blow, favouring gales, in her answering sails !
Blow steadily and free!

Rejoicing, strong,
Singing a song
Her rigging and her spars among,

And waft the vessel in pride along
That bears my love to me.”

Nearer-still nearer driving,
The white sails grow and swell ;

Clear to her eyes

The pennant flies,
And the flag she knows so well.
“Blow, favouring gales, in her answering sails !
Waft him, oh, gentle sea!

And still, O heart !
Thy fluttering start.
Why throb and beat as thou wouldst part,

When all so happy and bless'd thou art ?
He comes again to thee !?

The swift ship drops her anchor;
A boat pulls off for shore;

Against its prow

The ripples flow,
To the music of the oar.
“And art thou here, mine own, my dear,
Safe from the perilous sea ?-

Safe, safe at home,
No more to roam !
Blow, tempests, blow,-my love has come,-

And sprinkle the clouds with your dashing foam ! He shall part no more from me!”



She had been told that God made all the stars
That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood
Watching the coming of the twilight on,
As if it were a new and perfect world,
And this were its first eve. How beautiful
Must be the work of Nature to a child,
In its first fresh impression! Laura stood
By the low window, with the silken lash
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth
Half parted with the new and strange delight
Of beauty that she could not comprehend,
And had not seen before. The purple folds
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky
That look'd so still and delicate above,

Filld her young heart with gladness, and the eve
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a star
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively-
“Father, dear father, God has made a star!”



THREE fishers went sailing away to the west,

Away to the west as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him best,

And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,

Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ; They look'd at the squall, and they look'd at the shower,

And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep,

And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands

For those who will never come home to the town; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,

And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.


It was a peasant's cot,

With rafters rotten and old,
And the Bruce lay there, but he heeded not

That his canopy was not gold :
And, as he mused in his watch,

He noted, half in a dream,
A spider swinging under the thatch,

Swaying from beam to beam :
Six times in its aim it fail'd
A seventh—and lo! the poor imp has prevail'd

Through stout perseverance in right;

And the Bruce leapt up at the humble sight, And the fortunate omen hail'd,

And straightway shouted, eager for fight, “ Once more, once more, for me !"

And onward he march'd in his royal might
Till the land of his love was free!
And so, faint wrestler of life,

Many times foil'd and thrown,
If thou wouldst stand like a man in the strife

Where each must struggle alone,

Remember this word, “Once More,”

Be it seven, or seven times seven ; Knock yet again at the Father's door; Energy makes all Victory sure,

Away with the faithless leaven ! Onward, upward, never give in! “ Once more

is ever the watchword to win The crowns of earth and heaven!



A WEAVER sat by the side of his loom

A-flinging his shuttle fast; And a thread that would wear till the hour of doom

Was added at every cast.

His warp

had been by the angels spun, And his weft was bright and new, Like threads which the morning unbraids from the sun,

All jewelld over with dew.

And fresh-lipp'd, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers

In the rich soft web were bedded ;
And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours :

Not yet were Time's feet leaded !

But something there came slow stealing by,

And a shade on the fabric fell;
And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly-

For Thought hath a wearisome spell !

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