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THE THREE FISHERS.

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,Oh, Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

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Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
And beat his breast in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,

And the ship sinks down beneath the tide.

SOUTHEY.

27. THE THREE FISHERS.

THREE fishers went sailing away to the West,
Away to the West as the sun went down ;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
And the childron stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep;
Though the harbour bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,

And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come home to the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep;
And good-bye to the bar and to its moaning.

KINGSLEY.

PRAYER.

28. PRAYER.

PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire
Utter'd or unexprest;

The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,
The falling of a tear;
The upward glancing of an eye,
When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;

Prayer the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath,
The Christian's native air;

His watchword at the gates of death:
He enters heaven by prayer.

O! Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way,
The path of prayer thyself hast trod :
Lord, teach us how to pray!

MONTGOMERY.

28*

He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God that loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

COLERIDGE.

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THE NORMAN BARON.

29. THE NORMAN BARON.

IN his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered,
And the castle turret shook.

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,

And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday book.

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,

From the missal on his knee;

And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing,
Bells, that from the neighbouring kloster
Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal

Held that night their Christmas wassail;
Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits.

And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,
Knocking at the castle gates.

Till at length the lays they chaunted
Reached the chamber, terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with accents holy,

Whispered at the baron's ear.

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THE NORMAN BARON.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused awhile, and listened,
And the dying baron slowly

Turned his weary head to hear.

"Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger!
King, like David, priest, like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free!"

And the light'ning shewed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
"Miserere Domine !"

In that hour of deep contrition,
He beheld with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,
Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished,
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more loud than passion,
And the truth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his banner,

Every serf born to his manor,

All those wrong'd and wretched creatures,
By his hand were freed again!

And, as on the sacred missal

He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,

And the monk replied, "Amen."

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Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal,

Mingling with the common dust.

But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,

Brighter glows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.

LONGFELLOW.

30. LUCY.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet in a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye;

Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me.

WORDSWORTH.

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