"Avoid thee, fiend! with cruel hand แ "O think on faith and bliss! By many a death-bed I have been "And many a sinner's parting seen, "But never aught like this!" The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering, swell'd the gale, And-STANLEY! was the cry; A light on Marmion's visage spread, "Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 80. A FATHER READING THE BIBLE. WAS early day, and sunlight stream'd TWAS Soft through a quiet room, That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd, Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright, And touch'd the page with tenderest light, With something lovelier far- Some word of life e'en then had met Some ancient promise, breathing yet Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow For And silent stood his children by, Of thoughts o'ersweeping death. MRS. HEMANS. 81. THE HOLLY TREE. READER! hast thou ever stood to see 0 The holly tree? The eye, that contemplates it well, perceives Order'd by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries. Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, But as they grow where nothing is to fear, I love to view these things with curious eyes, And in this wisdom of the holly tree Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear To those who on my leisure would intrude Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away; Till the smooth temper of my age should be And as, when all the summer trees are seen The holly leaves their fadeless lines display But when the bare and wintry woods we see, So serious should my youth appear among So would I seem, amid the young and That in my age as cheerful I might be gay, SOUTHEY. 82. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat; And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, 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 He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes: K |