But half of our heavy task was done Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. POCAHONTAS. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. Wearied arm and broken sword Through the wilderness resounds, Now they heap the fatal pyre, Who will shield the captive knight? Who will shield the fearless heart? Dauntlessly aside she flings BEFORE SEDAN. AUSTIN DOBSON. "The dead hand clasped a letter."-Special Correspondence. Here in this leafy place, Cold, with his sightless face 'Tis but another dead; Carry his body hence,- What was the white you touched, Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died; Message or wish, may be; Smooth the folds out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled! Only the tremulous Words of a child; Prattle that has for stops Look. She is sad to miss, Good to mamma, and sweet. Ah, if beside the dead If the grief died;--But no;— SOLDIER, REST. WALTER SCOTT. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Here no bugles sound reveille. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Under a spreading chestnut tree His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, Like a sexton ringing the village bell, And children coming home from school They love to see the flaming forge, And catch the burning sparks that fly He goes on Sunday to the church, He hears the parson pray and preach, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice He needs must think of her once more, And with his hard, rough hand he wipes Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Something attempted, something done, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves-one-two-and three From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round they sink Softly, slowly: one might think |