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Tell. Not even to know that, would I in so
Ungentle partnership engage thee, Emma,
If will could help it; but necessity,
The master yet of will, how strong soe'er,
Compels me, prove thee.
The land was free! O!

When I wedded thee,

with what pride I used

To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And bless him that it was so ! It was free!—
From end to end, from cliff to lake 'twas free!—
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys, without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow,
In very presence of the regal sun!

How happy was I in it then! I loved
Its very storms ! Yes, Emma, I have sat
In my boat at night, when, midway o'er the lake,
The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge
The wind came roaring-I have sat and eyed
The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightnings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own!
You know the jutting cliff round which a track
Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow
To such another one, with scanty room

For two-a-breast to pass?

O'ertaken there

By the mountain blast, I've laid me flat, along;
And while gust follow'd gust, more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

And I have thought of other lands, whose storms

Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wish'd me there the thought that mine was free
Has check'd that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,

Blow on! This is the land of liberty!

JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

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.

LONGFELLOW.

SIR BALAAM.

WHERE London's column, pointing at the skies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies;
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name:
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,

And added pudding solemnized the Lord's:
Constant at church and 'change; his gains were sure,
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqued such saintship to behold,
And longed to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

Roused by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep The surge, and plunge his father in the deep; Then full against his Cornish lands they roar, And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.

Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,

He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes :
"Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word;
And lo! two puddings smoked upon the board.
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

An honest factor stole a gem away:

He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit,
So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.

Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his thought, "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church I'll now go twice— And am so clear, too, of all other vice."

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the Demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent. per cent., Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs " director," and secures his soul.

Behold, Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,
Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he called a blessing, now was wit,
And God's good providence a lucky hit,

Things change their titles as our manners turn.
His counting-house employed the Sunday morn :
Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life),
But duly sent his family and wife,

There (so the devil ordained) one Christmas-tide
My good old lady catched a cold and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight, He marries, bows at court, and grows polite : Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair) The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's square: In Britain's senate he a seat obtains, And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains. My lady falls to play; so bad her chance, He must repair it; takes a bribe from France; The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues; The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.

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