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ABOU-BEN-ADHEM (may his tribe increase),
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
All day the low-hung clouds have dropt,
Alone stood brave Horatius,
Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise,
Bird of the wilderness,
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
Came the relief. What, sentry, ho!
Come, dear children, let us away, ·
Father of all ! in every age,
Fri ds, Romans, countrymen! lend me your ears,
Good name, in man and woman,
Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands,
Hear the sledges with the bells,
Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand,
How are Thy servants blest, O Lord !
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
If thou should'st ever come to Modena,
I looked far back into other years, and lo! in bright array,
In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters,
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he,
It is growing dark ! yet one line more,
It is not growing like a tree,
It was a summer's evening,.
John Gilpin was a citizen,
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive,
Men have done brave deeds,
My ear-rings! my ear-rings ? they've dropt into the well!
My gentle child, I have no song to give you,
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
Not far advanced was morning day
Of Nelson and the North, .
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

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Oh, come you from the Indies ? and, soldier, can you tell,

Oh a dainty plant is the Ivy green,

Oh, many a shaft, at random sent,
Oh, that those lips had language ! Life hath passed,
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold,
On Linden, when the sun was low,
One morn a Peri at the gate,
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,

Since our country, our God-O my sire !

So forth issued the Seasons of the year,

Some murmur, when their sky is clear,

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

The bark that held a prince went down,
The Chief in silence strode before,.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,.
The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink,
The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! .
The King was on his throne,
The pall was settled. He who slept beneath,
The spearman heard the bugle sound,
The stately Homes of England,
The sun stepped down from his golden throne,
The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
The way was long, the wind was cold,
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
There was a sound of revelry by night,
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
To him who in the love of nature holds

Under a spreading chestnut tree

Up from the meadows, rich with corn,

Vital spark of heavenly flame!

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,

Welcome, wild North-easter!

We sat within the farm-house old,

What, is Antonio here?

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted ?

With fingers weary and worn,

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

Yet once more, () ye laurels, and once more,

Youth, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,

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AN APRIL DAY.-Chaucer. * GEOFFREY CHAUCER (1328-1400) was closely connected with the court of Edward III. He is looked upon as the father of English poetry. His chief work is the Canterbury Tales, consisting of stories told by pilgrims to the shrine of St. Thomas at Canterbury.

ALL day the low-hung clouds have dropt
Their garnered* fulness down ;

Garnered, stored up.
All day that soft grey mist hath wrapt
Hill, valley, grove, * and town.

Grove, a collection of

trees, or wood of small 5 There has not been a sound to-day

To break the calm of nature,
Nor motion, I might almost say,

Of life, or living creature,
Of waving bough, or warbling* bird,

Warbling, gently
Or cattle faintly lowing;*

singing I could have half believed I heard

Lowing, the bellowThe leaves and blossoms growing.

ing or cry mide by I stood to hear-I love it well, The rain's continuous* sound

Continuous, not leav

ing off. 15 Small drops, but thick and fast they fell,

Down straight into the ground.
For leafy thickness is not yet
Earth's naked breast to screen,*

Screen, to hide.
Though every dripping branch is set

With shoots of tender green.
Sure, since I looked at early morn,
Those honeysuckle* buds

Honeysuckle, a climb-
Have swelled to double growth; that thorn ing plant.

Hath put forth larger studs.





* These verses are given in the spelling of the įresent day, as Chaucer's old mode of orthography would not be intelligible to young readers.


Cones, leaf buds. Revealing, making known.

Stealing, moving softly.


Fragrance, sweetness
of scent.
Rife, full of.

Momentary, lasting
for a moment.
Deluge, a great over-
flow of water.

That lilac's cleaving cones* have burst, 25

The milk-white flowers revealing ; *
Even now, upon my senses first

Methinks their sweets are stealing.*
The very earth, the steamy air

Is all with fragrance* rife ;*
And grace and beauty everywhere

Are flushing into life.
Down, down they come—those fruitful stores !

Those earth-rejoicing drops !
A momentary * deluge* pours,

Then thins, decreases, stops.
And ere the dimples on the stream

Have circled out of sight,
Lo ! from the west a parting gleam
Breaks forth of amber* light.

40 But yet behold-abrupt* and loud,

Comes down the glittering rain ;
The farewell of a passing cloud,

The fringes* of her train.

Amber', a yellow transparent substance. Abrupt, very sudden, unexpected. Fringe, the border or edge.

A PSALM OF LIFE. - Longfellow.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807- ) is an eminent American poet. He was born at Portland, Maine, U.S., and has been for many years Professor of Languages at Harvard College, Massachusetts. Chief poems : Voices of the Night, Evangeline, Song of Hiawatha, Golden Legend, and Tales of a Wayside Inn.

Numbers, verse or poetry.


Goal, the place one is trying to reach ; the end of a race-course. Dust thou art, &c., referring to the death of the body and its decay in the grave. Destined, appointed, intended.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,*

Life is but an empty dream !
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.
Life is real ! Life is earnest !
And the


is not its goal ;*
“Dust thou art,* to dust returnest,"

Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined * end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Finds us further than to-day !


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