For the mother, doomed unseen to keep Darkness in chieftain's hall; While Freedom, under that shadowy pall, Oh, the fireside's peace we well may prize, 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 the olden days. ERE the morning's busy ray Call you to your work away, Ere the silent evening close Your wearied eyes in sweet repose, To lift your heart and voice in prayer Be And oh where'er your days be past, REV. GEORGE CRABBE. Down the long minster's aisle Crowds mutely gazing streamed; Through mists of incense gleamed. And, by the torches' blaze, They lowered him, with the sound "Forbear! forbear!" it cried, “In the holiest name, forbear! He hath conquered regions wide, But he shall not slumber there! "By the violated hearth Which made way for yon proud shrine; Hath borne for me and mine e; "By the house e'en here o'erthrown, "Will my sire's unransomed field, O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield Soft slumbers in the grave? "The tree before him fell Which we cherished many a year, "The land that I have tilled "Each pillar's massy bed Hath been wet by weeping eyes; Away! bestow your dead Where no wrong against him cries.” Shame glowed on each dark face Of those proud and steel-girt men, And they bought with gold a place For their leaders' dust e'en then A little earth for him Whose banner flew so far! One deep voice thus arose From a heart which wrongs had riven : Oh! who shall number those That were but heard in heaven? THE NORMAN BARON. H. W. LONGFELLOW. IN his chamber, weak and dying, In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, By his bed a Monk was seated, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, 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 Till at length the lays they chaunted. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, Turned his weary head to hear. Wassail for the kingly stranger, And the lightning showed the sainted In that hour of deep contrition, All the pomp of earth had vanished, Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged 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!" |