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162

EVENING IN A COUNTRY VILLAGE.

143. EVENING IN A COUNTRY VILLAGE.

SWEET was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
Where as I pass'd, with careless step and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below;
The swain responsive to the milkmaid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school;
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
There all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
GOLDSMITH.

144. CHILDHOOD'S HALLOWED PRAYER.

It is the hour when babes with angels speak,
While we are rushing to our pleasures weak
And sinful, all young children with bent knees,
Eyes raised to heaven, and small hands folded fair,
Pour forth the self-same prayer

On our behalf to Him who all things sees.

And then they sleep. Oh, peaceful cradle-sleep,
Oh, childhood's hallowed prayer! religion deep
Of love, not fear, in happiness exprest;
So the young bird, when done its twilight lay
Of praise, folds peacefully, at shut of day,

Its head beneath its wing, and sinks to rest.
From the French of Victor Hugo.

ΑΝΟΝ.

TRY AGAIN.

163

145. TRY AGAIN.

KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think;

'Tis true he was monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad;

He had tried, and tried, but couldn't succeed;
And so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair,

As grieved as man could be;

And after a while, as he pondered there, "I'll give it all up,” said he.

Now just at the moment a spider dropp'd

With its silken cobweb clue ;

And the king in the midst of his thinking, stopp'd To see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine;
That how it would get to its cobweb home,
King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl
Straight up with strong endeavour;
But down it came with a slippery sprawl,
As near the ground as ever.

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Up, up it ran, not a second it stay'd
To utter the least complaint;
Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,
A little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady-again it went,
And travell'd a half-yard higher;
"Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell and swung below,
But again it quickly mounted;
Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.

"Sure," cried the king, "that foolish thing Will strive no more to climb;

When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."

But

up the insect went once more,
Ah me! 'tis an anxious minute;

He's only a foot from his cobweb door,
Oh, say will he lose or win it!

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got;

And a bold little run at the very last pinch
Put him into his native cot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the king cried out,
"All honour to those who try;

The spider up there defied despair;
He conquer'd, and why shouldn't I?”

TRY AGAIN.

And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more as he tried before,
And that time did not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all ye who read,
And beware of saying "I can't;"
'Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead
To Idleness, Folly, and Want.

Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing;

Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the Spider and King.

ELIZA COOK.

165

146. SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME.

"SUFFER that little children come to me,
Forbid them not!" Emboldened by his words,
The mothers onward press; but finding vain
Th' attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes
To strangers' hands, the innocents alarm'd,
Amid the throng of faces all unknown,

'Shrink, trembling,-till their wandering eyes discern
The countenance of Jesus beaming love
And pity; eager then they stretch their arms,
And, cow'ring, lay their heads upon his breast.

GRAHAME.

166

MOONRISE.

147. MOONRISE.

How like a queen comes forth the lovely moon
From the slow opening curtains of the clouds;
Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!
The stars-are veil'd in light: the ocean-floods
And the ten thousand streams, the boundless woods,
The trackless wilderness, the mountain's brow,
Where winter on eternal pinion broods,

All height, depth, wildness, grandeur, gloom, below, Touch'd by thy smile, lone moon! in one wild splendour glow.

CROLY.

147*

THE Moon is up! how calm and slow

She wheels above the hill!

The weary winds forget to blow,
And all the world lies still.

It glistens where the hurrying stream
Its little ripple leaves;

It on the forest shade doth gleam,

And sparkles on the leaves.

PEABODY.

147**

THE MOON

Riding in clouded majesty at length,
Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

MILTON.

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