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!

Longfellow.

1 Like the tan, brown. Tan is the inner 2 Sledge, a large hammer. bark of the oak, used in tanning.

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a cottage door.

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night-
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow!'

"That, father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoon-

The minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!'

At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a fagot-band;

He plied his work; and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time;
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood,
That overlooked the moor;

And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,
'In heaven we all shall meet !'
When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed—
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;

And further there were none !

Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

Wordsworth.

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe,

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,2
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,3

4

No towers along the steep ;*

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep:

With thunders from her native oak,

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages long and loud,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Campbell.