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And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee..

Oh, for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high.
The white waves heaving high, my lads,

The good ship tight and free,— The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud!
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free—
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

Hartley Coleridge.

Born 1796. Died 1849.

On The Blank Leaf Of A Bible.

"IT THEN I received this volume small,

* * My years were barely seventeen; When it was hoped I should be all, Which once, alas! I might have been.

A a

And now ray years are thirty-five,
And every mother hopes her lamb,

And every happy child alive,
Will never be what now I am.

But yet should any chance to look
On the strange medley scribbled here,

I charge thee, tell them, little book,
I am not vile as I appear.

Oh tell them though my purpose lame
In fortune's race was still behind,—

Though earthly blots defiled my name,
They ne'er abused my better mind.

Of what men are, and why they are,
So weak, so woefully beguiled,

Much have I learned, but better far,
l know my soul is reconciled.

Mary Magdalene.

SHE sat and wept beside His feet; the weight
Of sin oppressed her heart: for all the blame,
And the poor malice of the worldly shame,
To her were past, extinct, and out of date;
Only the sin remained—the leprous state.
She would be melted by the heat of love,
By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove,
And purge the silver ore adulterate.
She sat and wept, and with her untressed hair,
Still wiped the feet she was so blest to touch,
And He wiped off the soiling of despair
From her sweet soul, because she loved so much.
I am a sinner full of doubts and fears,
Make me a humble thing of love and tears.

James Montgomery.

Born 1771. Died 1854.

The Common Lot.

ONCE, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a Man :—and WHO was HE i
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:

His name has perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone :—

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast;

His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear !—
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirit's rise and fall,

We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffered,—but his pangs are o'er;

Enjoyed,—but his delights are fled; Had friends,—his friends are now no more;

And foes,—his foes are dead.

He loved,—but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:

Oh she was fair!—but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;

Encountered all that troubles thee: He was—whatever thou hast been;

He is—what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,

Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,

Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace
Than this,—There Lived A Man!

John Wilson.

Bor n 1788. Died 1854.

The Evening Cloud.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun, **. A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow! Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven,
Where, to the eye of faith, it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

Thomas Babington Macaulay.

Born 1800. Died 1859.

The Speech Of Icilius.

NOW, by your children's cradles, now by your father's
Be men to day, Quirites, or be for ever slaves!
For this did Servius give us laws? For this did Lucrece bleed?
For this was the great vengeance wrought on Tarquin's evil

For this did those false sons make red the axes of their sire?
For this did Scaevola's right hand hiss in the Tuscan fire?
Shall the vile fox-earth awe the race that stormed the lion's den?
Shall we, who could not brook one lord, crouch to the wicked Ten?
Oh for that ancient spirit which curbed the Senate's will!
Oh for the tents which in old time whitened the Sacred Hill!
In those brave days our fathers stood firmly side by side;
They faced the Marcian fury; they tamed the Fabian pride;
They drove the fiercest Quinctius an outcast forth from Rome;
They sent the haughtiest Claudius with shivered fasces home.
But what their care bequeathed us our madness flung away:
All the ripe fruit of threescore years was blighted in a day.
Exult, ye proud Patricians! The hard-fought fight is o'er.
We strove for honours—'twas in vain : for freedom—'tis no more.

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