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HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
How the farmers gave them hall for ball, 10, thou child of many prayers ! From behind each fence and farm-yard Life hath quicksands, - Lifehath snares ! wall,
Care and age come unawares ! Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Like the swell of some sweet tune, Under the trees at the turn of the road, Morning rises into noon, And only pausing to fire and load. May glides onward into June. So through the night rode Paul Revere; Childhood is the bough, where slumbered And so through the night went his cry Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;of alarm
Age, that bough with suows encumbered.
To embalm that tent of snows.
0, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! On the brooklet's swift advance,
For the soul is dead that slumbers, On the river's broad expanse !
And things are not what they seem. Deep and still, that gliding stream
Life is real! Life is earnest! Beautiful to thee must seem,
And the grave is not its goal; As the river of a dream.
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way; Seest thon shadows sailing by,
But to act, that each to-morrow As the dore, with startled eye,
Find us farther than to-day. Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Art is long, and Time is fleeting, Hearest thou voices on the shore, Andour hearts, though stout and brave, That our ears perceive no more, Still, like muftled alrums, are beating Deafened by the cataract's roar ?
Funeral marches to the grave.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOU'XG MAN SAID TO