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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,




I REMEMBER, I remember,

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn.
He never came a wink too soon,

Yor brought too long a day;
But now I often wish the night

Had borne my loreath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses red and white; The violets and the lily cups,

Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin buiit,

And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day

The tree is living yet.

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing: And thought the air must rush as fresli

To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,

The fir-trees, dark and high ;
I used to think their slender tops

Were close against the sky.

It was a childish ignorance;

But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm further off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.



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.

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 !



I am monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O Solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech

I start at the sound of my own.

The beasts that roam over the plain

My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth; Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion ! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford : But the sound of the church-going bell

These valleys and rocks never heard ; Never sighed at the sound of a knell,

Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds! that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore
Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more.
My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me?
Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!

Compared with the speed of its flight The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot.



VOYAGER upon life's sea, to yourself be true,
And where'er your lot may be, Paddle your own canoe.'"
Never, though the winds may rave, falter nor look back;
But upon the darkest wave leave a shining track.

Nobly dare the wildest storm, stem the hardest gale; Brave of heart and strong of arm, you will never fail. When the world is cold and dark, keep an aim in view; And toward the beacon-mark “ Paddle your own canoe.'

Every wave that bears you on to the silent shore,
From its sunny source has gone, to return no more:
Then let not an hour's delay cheat you of your due;
But, while it is called to-day,“ Paddle your own canoe !"

If your birth denied you wealth, lofty state and power,
Honest fame and hardy health are a better dower:
But, if these will not suffice, golden gain pursue;
And to gain the glittering prize, “Paddle your own canoe.''

Would you wrest the wreath of fame from the hand of fate? Would you write a deathless name with the good and great ? Would you bless your fellow-men? Heart and soul imbue With the holy task, and then “ Paddle your own canoe!

Would you crush the tyrant wrong, in the world's free fight?
With a spirit brave and strong, battle for the right:
And to break the chains that bind the many to the few---
To enfranchise slavish mind—“ Paddle your own canoe !

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