Oh! my balmy days of boyhood, When I ranged at will the wild woods, Or the gentle blue-eyed violet, Brought his welcome frost and snow, How we thronged the frozen streamlets, Many, many years ago! MANY, MANY YEARS AGO. Then my days of dawning manhood, When the future seemed all brightness, Or when round came joyous Christmas- Have I toyed with blushing maidens, Ah, ye golden days departed! -T. Loker. 83 RULE BRITANNIA. WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, And guardian angels sung the strain: The nations not so blest as thee Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall; Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free, Rule Britannia, &c. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, Rule Britannia, &c. Thee, haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; Rule Britannia, &c. To thee belongs the rural reign: Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All shall be subject to the main, And every shore it circles thine. Rule Britannia, &c. The Muses, still with freedom found, Blest isle! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule Britannia, &c. -James Thomson. BE patient! oh, be patient! put your ear against the earth; Listen there how noiselessly the germ o' the seed has birth— How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way, Till it parts the scarcely broken ground, and the blade stands up in the day. Be patient! oh, be patient! the germs of mighty thought Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought; But as sure as there's a Power that makes the grass appear, Be patient! oh, be patient! go and watch the wheat-ears grow Be patient! oh, be patient! though yet our hopes are green, The harvest fields of freedom shall be crowned with sunny sheen, Be ripening! be ripening! mature your silent way, Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on Freedom's harvest day. -Richard C. Trench. AND is there care in heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, That may compassion of their evils move? There is, else much more wretched were the case That blessed angels He sends to and fro How oft do they their silver bowers leave To come to succour us that succour want! How oft do they with golden pinions cleave The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant ! Against foul fiends, to aid us militant, They for us fight; they watch and duly ward, And their bright squadrons round about us plant, And all for love, and nothing for reward: Oh! why should heavenly God to man have such regard! -Edmund Spenser. |