24

I DARE NOT SCORN.

Therefore, star, thou art not shaded
By the darkness of the tomb!
Royal rose! thou art not faded,

I

In heaven, we trust, thou still dost

may

bloom!

MISS JEWSBURY.

I DARE NOT SCORN.

not scorn the meanest thing That on the earth doth crawl,

The slave who dares not burst his chain,
The tyrant in his hall.

The vile oppressor, who hath made
The widow'd mother mourn,

Though worthless, soulless, he may stand,
I cannot, dare not, scorn.

The darkest night that shrouds the sk
Of beauty hath a share;

The blackest heart hath signs to tell
That God still lingers there.

I pity all that evil are

I pity and I mourn;

But the SUPREME hath fashion'd all,
And, oh! I dare not scorn.

Nicol.

MARCH.

MARCH:

The Cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green fields sleep in the sun.

The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill,

On the top of the bare hill;

25

The plough-boy is whooping-anon-

anon

There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

Wordsworth

26

CUREEW SONG OF ENGLAND.

THE CURFEW-SONG OF ENGLAND.

Hark from the dim Church tower,
The deep, slow, curfew's chime!
-A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the field of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearthflame,

In his children's eyes make light.

Woe, for the pilgrim then,

In the wild deer's forest far!
No cottage-lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him as a star.

And woe for him, whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings fill'd,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were still'd!

And yet a deeper woe

For the watcher of the bed,

Where the fondly loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!

For the mother, doomed unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,

HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 27

And to feel its fluttering pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!

Darkness in peasant's cot;

While freedom under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flowed like rain,
Pour'd forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high,

Till the red light fills the room! It is home's own hour when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom. Gather ye round the holy hearth, And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth,

With a thought of olden days!

Mrs. Hemans.

HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP.

O Lord another day is flown,

And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,

To bless thy fostering hand.

28

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

And wilt thou lend a listening ear

To praises low as ours?

Thou wilt for thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles will deign,
As we before thee pray ;

For thou did'st bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.

O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chasten'd, cleans'd, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;

The sun of holiness shall shine,

In glory on our head.

And thon wilt turn our wandering feet,
And thou wilt bless our way;

Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet,
The dawn of lasting day,

H. K. White.

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

Briskly blows the evening gale,

Fresh and free it blows!