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So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,

And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean

foam;

The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;

The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed

out;

And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;

For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)

This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas

morn,

And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,

Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was

of me,

Of the shadow on the household and the son that went

to sea;

And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. "All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call.

"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.

"It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,

And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.

As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the

night,

We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the

light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board

but me,

As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to

sea;

But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the

cold,

Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were

growing old.

THE DEPARTED FRIEND

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Though he that ever kind and true
Kept stoutly step by step with you,
Your whole long, gusty lifetime through,
Be gone a while before

Be now a moment gone before,

Yet doubt not; anon the seasons shall restore

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He pushes on with right good will

Through mire and marsh, by heugh and hill,
That self-same arduous way

That self-same upland hopeful way

That you and he through many a doubtful day Attempted still.

He is not dead, this friend—not dead,

But in the path we mortals tread

Got some few, trifling steps ahead
And nearer to the end,

So that you, too, once past the bend,

Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend
You fancy dead.

Push gayly on, strong heart; the while

You travel forward mile by mile,

He loiters with a backward smile

Till you can overtake,

And strains his eyes to search his wake,

Or, whistling, as he sees you through the brake,

Waits on a stile.

BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Before the beginning of years

There came to the making of man
Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance, fallen from heaven;
And madness risen from hell;
Strength, without hands to smite;
Love, that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the laboring earth;
And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth;
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashion'd with loathing and love,
With life before and after,

And death beneath and above,

For a day and a night and a morrow,

That his strength might endure for a span

With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south
They gather'd as unto strife;
They breathed upon his mouth,

They fill'd his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,
A time for labor and thought,

A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways,

And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;

In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a vision

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Between a sleep and a sleep.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP

BY BAYARD TAYLOR

Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,

The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff,

Lay grim and threatening under;

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