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'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid sun
Faint from the west, emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill,
Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man
His annual visit. Half-afraid, he first
Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights
On the warm hearth; then hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the smiling family askance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is :
Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs
Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare,
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs,
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine
Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glistening earth,
With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed,
Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow.

Thomson.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain;
The long remembered beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won;
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call,
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies;
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last falt’ring accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile,
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile.
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Goldsmith.

CASA BIANCA.*

The boy stood on the burning deck,

Whence all but him had fled ;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,

Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;
Ai creature of heroịc blood,

A proud though child-like form.
The flames rolled on-he would not go,

Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud—“Say, father, say

If yet my task is done ?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!” once again he cried,

“If I may yet be gone?'
And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on. * Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient,' remained at his post in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned ; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair;
And looked from that lone post of death,

In still, yet brave despair:
And shouted but once more aloud,

“My father! must I stay ?” While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud

The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,

Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound-

The boy-oh! where was he?-
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea !
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

Hemans.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut treo

The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the

open

door:
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly,

Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,-rejoicing, -sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begun,

Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's reposé.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

Longfellow.

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