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Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts, on his eye ;
Ah! what is that sound which now 'larms his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunder, the groan of the sphere!
He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck,
Amazement confionts him with images dire;
The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on fire.
Like mountains the billows tremendously swell,
In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death-angel Haps his broad wings o'er the wave.
O sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight !
In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss, Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Thy parents' fond pressure, and home's honeyed bliss ?
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.
No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge ; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge!
On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.
shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye,
O sailor-boy! sailor-boy! peace to thy soul.
Our neighbors have a big sneaking cat,
One day Jet was wagging his tail in the door,
For, down in the grass, with a bird in her claws,
He was just a black streak as he shot out that door,
The King bent down and kissed the child,
The courtiers turned away.
“Let none thy right gainsay.
“Our swords may cleave the casques
Without the help of God!”
XXIII.-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,
Are strong as iron bands.
His face is like the tan;
He earns whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits amongst his boys ;
He hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice;
Singing in paradise ;
How in the grave she lies,
A tear from out his eyes.
Week in, week out, from morn 'till night, Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each evening sees its close ;
Has earned a night's repose. And children coming home from school Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend Look in at the open door
For the lesson thou hast taught ; They love to see the flaming forge Thus, at the flaming forge of life, And hear the bellows roar,
Our fortunes must be wrought ; And catch the sparks that ly
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Like chaff from a threshing foor.
Each burning deed, each thought.