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THE BRIDGE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.] STOOD on the bridge at midnight,

As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city,

Behind the dark church-tower.

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Among the long, black rafters

The wavering shadows lay,
And the current that came from the ocean

Seemed to lift anā bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

The sea-weed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

Among the wooden piers,
A flood of thoughts came o'er me

That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O how often,

In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight,

And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O how often,

I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom

O'er the ocean wild and wide!

For my

heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me

Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

It is buried in the sea;
And only the sorrow of others

Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,

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Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

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NEVER FAILED US.

UPON the sadness of the sea,
The sunset broods regretfully;
From the far, lonely spaces, slow
Withdraws the wistful afterglow.

So out of life the splendor dies;
So darken all the happy skies;
So gathers twilight, cold and stern,
But overhead the planets burn;

And up

the east another day Shall chase the bitter dark away; What though our eyes with tears be wet? The sunrise never failed us yet,

The blush of dawn may yet restore
Our light and hope and joy once more;
Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget
That sunrise never failed us yet.

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SONGS.

SHAKSPERE.

W

ARIEL'S SONG.
HERE the bee sucks, there lurk I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry;
On the bat's back I do fly.
After summer merrily,
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough

THE FAIRY TO PUCK.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere.
And I serve the Fairy Queen;
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see,
Those be rubies, fairy favors;
In those freckles live their savors.

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