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Cold calculating cares succeed,
The dull realities of truth;
The happy dreams of Youth.
So reaches he the latter stage
With feeble step and slow;
That all is vanity below.
Its idle hopes are o'er,
The days that are no more.
PASSING across a green and lonely lane
Were busy with her name. She had to bear
THE EBB TIDE.
Slowly thy flowing tide
Behold the gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, And yet the eye beheld them labouring long
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks that lay
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon! I gaze and know
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
For those who fell, 'twas in their country's cause,
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 The sound was not familiar to mine ear. But it was told me, after, that this man Was one whom lawful violence had forced From his own home, and wife, and little ones, Who by his labour lived ; that he was one Whose uncorrupted heart could keenly feel A husband's love,-a father's anxiousness; That, from the wages of his toil, he fed The distant dear ones, and would talk of them At midnight, when he trod the silent deck With him he valued ;—talk of them, of joys Which he had known,-oh God! and of the hour When they should meet again, till his full heart, His manly heart, at last would overflowEven like a child's—with very tenderness. Peace to his honest spirit ! suddenly It came, and merciful the ball of death, For it came suddenly and shatter'd him, And left no moment's agonizing thought On those he loved so well.
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 scull,” 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,
“ And what they kill'd each other for.”
“ 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.