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gaze and know The lesson emblem'd in thy varying way; It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms which long have stood, And slow to strength and power attain'd at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood
Ebb to their ruin fast.
Thus like thy flow appears Time's tardy course to manhood's envied stage ; Alas! how hurryingly the ebbing years
Then hasten to old age!
HARK,-how the church bells' thundering harmony
There was one who died In that day's glory, whose obscurer name No proud historian's page will chronicle. Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
He, ocean deep, Now lies at rest. Be Thou her comforter Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know What a cold sickness made her blood run back When first she heard the tidings of the fight: Man does not know with what a dreadful hope She listened to the names of those who died : Man does not know,--or, knowing, will not heed, With what an agony of tenderness She gazed upon her children, and beheld His image who was gone. O God! be Thou, Who art the widow's friend, her comforter !
THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
Was sitting in the sun,
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet
In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;
And with a natural sigh, “ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “ Who fell in the great victory.
“I find them in the garden,
For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,
The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,” said he, “ Were slain in that great victory.”
“Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries; While little Wilhelmine looks up,
With wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
“ It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
“Who put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out. But every body said," quoth he, “ That 'twas a famous victory.
“My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by ;
And he was forced to fly;
“ With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And new-born baby died;
They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;
Lay rotting in the sun;
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,
And our good prince Eugene.” “ Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !"
Said little Wilhelmine.
“ Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he,
“It was a famous victory.
* And every body prais'd the Duke
Who this great fight did win.”
Quoth little Peterkin.
TO A BEE.
Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy Bee !
As abroad I took my early way,
Had risen up and left her trace
Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy Bee !
After the fall of the Cistus flower;
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy Bee !
Late and early at employ;
Still on thy golden stores intent, Thy summer in heaping and hoarding is spent
What thy winter will never enjoy ; Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, busy Bee !