THE LAST OF THE FLOCK Wordsworth makes a poem of the grief of a shepherd -a kind of sermon that would hardly have been perceived or thought of by any other heart than Wordsworth's -however kind. IN distant countries have I been, And in the broad highway I met; His cheeks with tears were wet; Sturdy he seemed, though he was sad, And in his arms a lamb he had. He saw me, and he turned aside, I followed him and said, "My friend, What ails you? wherefore weep you so?" Shame on me, sir! this lusty lamb, He makes my tears to flow. To-day I fetched him from the rock; "When I was young, a single man, Though little given to care and thought, S.P. G And other sheep from her I raised, Of sheep I numbered a full score, "Year after year my stock it grew: They throve, and we at home did thrive: This lusty lamb of all my store Is all that is alive; And now I care not if we die, And perish all of poverty. "Six children, sir, had I to feed; My pride was tamed, and in our grief My sheep upon the uplands fed, Do this-how can we give to you, "I sold a sheep as they had said, A woeful time it was for me, To see the end of all my gains, "Another still! and still another! A little lamb, and then its mother! Like blood-drops from my heart they dropped Till thirty were not left alive; They dwindled, dwindled, one by one; And I may say that many a time I wished they all were gone ; Reckless of what might come at last, "To wicked deeds I was inclined, No ease within doors or without; I went my work about: And oft was moved to flee from home "Sir, 'twas a precious flock to me, Alas! it was an evil time; God cursed me in my sore distress; They dwindled, sir, sad sight to see! And then at last from three to two; I had but only one : And here it lies upon my arm Alas, and I have none; To-day I fetched it from the rock It is the last of all my flock!" WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND The English navy in time of war evoked the great spirit of the metre and the rhymes. YE Mariners of England That guard our native seas, Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze, Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow While the battle rages loud and long, UNIV. OF CALIFORNIA ΙΟΙ The School of Poetry The spirits of your fathers For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Britannia needs no bulwarks, Her march is o'er the mountain waves, With thunders from her native oak As they roar on the shore When the stormy winds do blow,— The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow,- THOMAS CAMPBELL. |