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whom they once had served: incense and hymns rose up; but a divine voice came down to them, clear and ringing:


Why did you doubt and mourn? Mountains will fall,—s will disappear,-temples fall to ruins,—but the life of the Gods will breathe where it lists."


MARK this holy chapel well!

The birth-place, this, of William Tell.*
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage-bed.

Here first, an infant to her breast,
Him his loving mother prest;


And kissed the babe, and bless'd the day,
And pray'd, as mothers use to pray:
"Vouchsafe him health, O God, and give
The child, thy servant, still to live!"
But God had destined to do more
Through him, than through an armed power.

God gave him reverence of laws,

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause-
A spirit to his rocks akin,-

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!

To Nature and to Holy Writ
Alone did God the boy commit:

Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soar'd aloft!

The straining oar and chamois' chase
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace:
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was!

He knew not that his chosen hand,
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of Slavery, the which he broke.

* A celebrated Swiss patriot, who roused his countrymen to throw off the Austrian yoke.

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Alas! my child, you only snow
How little your false heart you know
Daily you've mercies from the Lord,
Daily you sin against his word.

Sin twines itself with every thought,
Each word, each work with sin is fraugnt.
Your little heart is all unclean,
And quite a dwelling-place for sin.

The fruits, dear child, of Adam's fall
Have passed on you, have passed on all;
And constantly you disobey

The God to whom you kneel and pray.

His word in many places shows
The awful truth I would disclose;
And O! may He his grace impart
To make you know your own vile heart!


THERE'S something in a noble boy,
A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,


His dread of books and love of fun,
And in his clear and ready smile,
Unshaded by a thought of guile,
And unrepressed by sadness,-
Which brings me to my childhood back,
As if I trod its very track,

And felt its very gladness.

And yet it is not in his play,

When every trace of thought is lost,
And not when you would call him gay,
That his bright presence thrills me most.
His shout may ring upon the hill,

His voice he echoed in the hall,

His merry laugh like music thrill,
And I in sadness hear it all,-

For, like the wrinkles on my brow,
I scarcely notice such things now,

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