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110 THAT EACH THING IS HDRT OF Ii.-Kl,p
Then, in this same boat, beside,
One on earth in silence wrought,
So, whene'er I turn my eye Back upon the days gone by, Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, Friends who closed their course before me.
Yet what binds us, friend to friend,
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee;
THAT EACH THING IS HURT OF ITSELF. — Old
Why fearest thou the outward foe,
When thou thyself thy harm doth feed?Of grief or hurt, of pain or woe,
Within each thing is sown the seed.
So fine was never yet the cloth,
But the one consumed was by moth,
The knotty oak, and wainscoat old,
Even so a mind in envy rolled
Thus everything that nature wrought
No outward harm need to be sought,
THE KING OF THE CROCODILES. — SotUftey.
"Now, woman, why without your veil 1
"O, I have lost my darling boy,
In whom my soul had all its joy;
And I for sorrow have torn my veil;
And sorrow hath made my very heart pale.
"O, I have lost my darling child,
142 THE KING OF THE CROCODILES.
"He did not venture in to swim, He only stooped to drink at the brim;But under the reeds the crocodile lay, And struck with his tail and swept him away.
"Now take me in your boat, I pray,
"The King of the Crocodiles never does wrong,
"And to the King I will complain,
The man replied, — " No,vwoman, no,
"Then lend me now your little boat, And I will down the river float
I tell thee that no earthly thing Shall keep me from the Crocodile King."
The woman she leapt into the boat,
The King of the Crocodiles there was seen, —
The woman shook every limb with fear,
She fell upon her bended knee,
And said, — " O King, have pity on me,
For I have lost my darling child,
And that's the loss that makes me wild.
"A crocodile ate him for his food;
"I know that you, sire! never do wrong,
"You have done well," the King replies,
"I have no tail to strike and slay,
144 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. BURIAL OP SIR JOHN MOORE. — Wolfe.
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried;Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, — By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet, nor in shroud, we bound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that's gone,