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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;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck;

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.
Days, months, years,


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.

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Our neighbors have a big sneaking cat,
That won't catch a rat or a mouse,
But is after each robin, phoebe, and wren
That dares build its nest near the house.

One day Jet was wagging his tail in the door,
When there came such a flutter of wings;
0, how those robins did chatter and scold,
And no wonder, poor little things !

For, down in the grass, with a bird in her claws,
Was crouching that sneak of a cat;
And I tell you Jet bristled, for even a dog
Would'nt do such a mean thing as that.

He was just a black streak as he shot out that door,
And, before that cat knew what to do,
Jet had her and shook her as he shakes a rat,
And-well, you may know the fur flew.
Yes, that's just like “Jet," he's a wonderful dog.
Speak! Give me your paw, sir ! See that?
Dead dog, for the gentleman. Yes sir, he's kind;
But oh, he is death on a cat !

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The King bent down and kissed the child,

The courtiers turned away.
“The heritage is thine,” he said,

“Let none thy right gainsay.

“Our swords may cleave the casques


Our blood may stain the sod,
But what are human strength and power

Without the help of God!”



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,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits amongst 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 ni ust think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies,
And with his hard rough hand he wipes

A tear from out his eyes.

Week in, week out, from morn 'till night, Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
You can hear his bellows blow ;

Onward through life he goes;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Each morning sees some task begun,
With measured beat and slow,

Each evening sees its close ;
Like a sexton ringing the village bell, Something attempted, something done,
When evening sun is low.

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.

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