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Each corse lay flat, lifeless and fat,
“This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
“This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart-
But soon I heard the dash of oars,
“The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,
“I saw a third-I heard his voice:
“This Hermit good lives in that wood
“He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve
He hath a cushion plump:
"The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk:
Why this is strange, I trow !
Strange, by my faith !' the Hermit said,
“'Brown skeleton of leaves that lag
My forest brook along;
"Dear Lords it hath a fiendish look'
(The Pilot made reply) 'I am a-feared'-'Push on, push on!' Said the Hermit cheerily.
“The boat came closer to the ship,
“ Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
“Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
“Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
“I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked
And fell down in a fit;
“I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
“And now, all in my own countree,
I stood on the firm land !
"Oh, shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !'
The Hermit crossed his brow.
“Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
"I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
“What loud uproar bursts from that door !
“O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide, wide sea:
“Oh, sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
“To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
“He prayeth best, who loveth best
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
He went like one that hath been stunned,
The beams of morning are renewed,
The valley laughs their light to see; And earth is bright with gratitude,
And heaven with Charity.
O dew of heaven; O light of earth!
Fain would our hearts be-filled with thee, Because nor darkness comes, nor dearth,
About the home of Charity.
By noon and night, by sun and shower,
By dews that fall and winds that flee, On grove and field, on fold and flower,
Is shed the peace of Charity.
The violets light the lonely hill,
The fruitful furrows load the lea; Man's heart alone is sterile still,
For lack of lowly Charity.
THE YELLOW VIOLET.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
When beechen buds begin to swell,
Aud woods the blue-bird's warble know, The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's leaves below. Ere russet fields their green resume,
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare,
Alone is in the virgin air.
First plant thee in the watery mould,
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue,
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat,
And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.