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So serious should my youth appear
among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem amid the young and

gay

More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly-tree.

THE PAUPER'S FUNERAL.

What! and not one to heave the pious sigh?

Not one whose sorrow-swollen and aching eye

For social scenes, for life's endearments fled,

Shall drop a tear and dwell upon the dead!

Poor wretched outcast! I will weep for thee,

And sorrow for forlorn humanity. Yes, I will weep; but not that thou art come

To the stern sabbath of the silent tomb:

For squalid want, and the black scorpion care,

Heart-withering fiends' shall never enter there.

I sorrow for the ills thy life hath known,

As through the world's long pilgrimage, alone, Haunted by poverty, and woebegone, Unloved, unfriended, thou didst journey on:

Thy youth in ignorance and labor

past,

And thine old age all barrenness and blast.

Hard was thy fate, which, while it

doomed to woe, Denied thee wisdom to support the

blow;

And robbed of all its energy thy mind, Ere yet it cast thee on thy fellowkind.

Abject of thought, the victim of distress,

To wander in the world's wide wilderness.

Poor outcast, sleep in peace! the wintry storm

Blows bleak no more on thy unsheltered form;

Thy woes are past; thou restest in the tomb; —

I pause, and ponder on the days to come.

WRITTEN ON SUNDAY MORNING.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer!

I to the woodlands wend, and there In lovely nature see the God of love. The swelling organ's peal Wakes not my soul to zeal, Like the wild music of the windswept grove. The gorgeous altar and the mystic vest

Rouse not such ardor in my breast, As where the noon-tide beam Flashed from the broken stream,

Quick vibrates on the dazzled sight; Or where the cloud-suspended rain Sweeps in shadows o'er the plain;

Or when reclining on the cliffs huge height,

I mark the billows burst in silver light.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer!

I to the woodlands shall repair, Feed with all nature's charms mine eyes,

And hear all nature's melodies. The primrose bank shall there dispense

Faint fragrance to the awakened

sense:

The morning beams that life and

joy impart, Shall with their influence warm my

heart,

And the full tear that down my

cheek will steal, Shall speak the prayer of praise I

feel.

Go thou and seek the house of prayer!

I to the woodlands bend my way

And meet religion there. She needs not haunt the high-arched

dome to pray Where storied windows dim the

doubtful day. With Liberty she loves to rove. Wide o'er the heathy hill or cowslipt dale; Or seek the shelter of the embowering grove, Or with the streamlet wind along the vale.

Sweet are these scenes to her; and

when the night Pours in the north her silver streams

of light,

She woos reflection in the silent gloom,

And ponders on the world to come.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer evening.

Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkln
Roll something large and round,

That he beside the rivulet
In playing there, had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That w as so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspartook it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head.

And with a natural sigh, 'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he, Who fell in the great victory.

I find them in the garden, for

There's many hereabout.
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men, said he, Were slain in the great victory.

Now tell us what 'twas all about,

Young Peterkin he cries, And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;
Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for.

It was the English, Kaspar cried,
That put the French to rout;

But what they killed each other for,
I could not well make out.

But everybody said, quoth he,

That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by,

They burnt his dwelling to the
ground,
And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born infant, died; But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight,

After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene. Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!

Said little Wilhehnine. Nay — nay — my little girl, quoth he, It was a famous victory.

And everybody praised the Duke

Who such a fight did win.
But what good came of it at last?

Quoth little Peterkin.
Why, that I cannot tell, said he,
But 'twas a famous victory.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

"How does the water

Come down at I„odore!"

My little boy asked me

Thus, once on a time;
And moreover he tasked me

To tell him in rhyme.
Anon, at the word;
There first came one daughter,

And then came another,
To second and third
The request of their brother;
And to hear how the water

comes down at Lodore,

With its rush and its roar,
As many a time

They had seen it before.

So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;
And 'twas in my vocation

For their recreation

That so I should sing;
Because I was laureate

To them and the king.

From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps

In its own little lake,
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,

In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,
Hurry-skurry,
Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till, in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging
its caverns and rocks among;

Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,
Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound:
Smiting and fighting
A sight to delight in;
Confounding, astounding,
Dizzying and deafening the ear with
its sound.

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning.
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking.
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and

sprawling,

And driving and riving and striving.

And sprinkling and twinkling and

wrinkling. And sounding and bounding and

rounding, And bubbling and troubling and

doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and

tumbling, And clattering and battering and

shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting

and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing

and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing

and dancing. Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and

boiling,

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping, and slapping,

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping.

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;

And so never ending, but always descending.

Sounds and motions forever and ever

are blending All at once, and all o'er, with a

mighty uproar, — And this way, the water comes down

at Lodore.

THE EBB-TIDE.

Slowly thy flowing tide Came in, old Avon! scarcely did

mine eyes, As watchfully I roamed thy greenwood side, Behold the gentle rise.

With many a stroke and strong. The laboring boatmen upward plied

their oars, And yet the eye beheld them laboring long Between thy winding shores.

Now down thine ebbing tide The unlabored boat falls rapidly along,

The solitary helmsman sits to guide, And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks, that lay So silent late, the shallow current roars;

Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon! I gaze and know! The wisdom emblemed in thy varying way,

It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, So rapidly decay.

Kingdoms that long have stood, And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood Ebb to their ruin fast.

So tardily appears

The course of time to manhood's envied stage,

Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years

Then hasten to old age!

TO THE FIRE.

My friendly fire, thou blazest clear and bright, Nor smoke nor ashes soil thy grateful flame; Thy temperate splendor cheers the gloom of night, Thy genial heat enlivens the chilled frame.

I love to muse me o'er the evening hearth,

I love to pause in meditation's sway;

And whilst each object gives reflection birth, Mark thy brisk rise, and see thy slow decay;

And I would wish, like thee, to shine serene,

Like thee, within mine influence, all to cheer; And wish at last in life's declining scene,

As I had beamed as bright, to fade

as clear:

So might my children pondero'ermy

shrine,

And o'er my ashes muse, as I will muse o'er thine.

Robert Southwell.

CONTENT AND RICH.

My conscience is my crown;

Contented thoughts, my rest; My heart is happy in itself,

My bliss is in my breast.

Enough I reckon wealth;

That mean, the surest lot, That lies too high for base contempt,

Too low for envy's shot.

My wishes are but few;

All easy to fulfil:
I make the limits of my power

The bounds unto my will.

I fear no care for gold,

Well-doing is my wealth; My mind to me an empire is,

While grace affordeth health.

I clip high-climbing thoughts,
The wings of swelling pride;

Their fall is worst that from the height
Of greatest honor slide.

Since sails of largest size
The storm dotii soonest tear,

I bear so low and small a sail
As freeth me from fear.

I wrestle not with rage

While fury's flame'doth burn;

It is in vain to stop the stream
Until the tide doth turn.

lint when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,

I turn a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend.

And, taught with often proof,

A tempered calm I find To be most solace to itself,

Best cure for angry mind.

Spare diet is my fare,

My clothes more fit than fine; I know I feed and clothe a foe,

That pampered would repine.

I envy not their hap
Whom favor doth advance;

I take no pleasure in their pain
That have less happy chance.

To rise by others' fall

I deem a losing gain;
All states with others' ruin built

To ruin run amain.

No change of Fortune's calm
Can cast my comforts down:

When Fortune smiles, I smile to think
How quickly she will frown.

And when, in froward mood,

She proved an angry foe, Small gain, I found, to let her come—

Less loss to let her go.

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