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Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth.

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!) With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint. (Where did he learn that squint ?)

THE LAMB.

W. BLAKE.

LITTLE lamb, who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream, and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight-
Softest clothing, woolly, bright ;-
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice:

Little lamb, who made thee ?

Dost thou know who made thec ?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee!
Little lamb, I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb:-
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child:
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.

Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

27

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree
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,

His 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 begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

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!

EXCELSIOR.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,

And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

EXCELSIOR.

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright.
Above the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

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Try not the Pass !" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary
head upon
this breast!"

A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch,
Beware the awful avalanche !"

This was the peasant's last Good-night :
A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

29

LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.

GEORGE COLMAN.

WHO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face;

Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,

Are so dear, and so bad they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a ton,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.

He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated,
But all the night long he felt fevered and heated;
And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same, and the next, and the next;

He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed; Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession, His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him;

For his skin, "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him;

He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny :

"I have lost many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea."

The doctor looked wise: "A slow fever," he said: Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.

"Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will, "are humbugs! I've enough of them there without paying for drugs!"

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