45. THE MINSTREL-BOY.

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him :
"Land of song!" said the warrior-bard,
"Though all the world betrays thee,
"One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
"One faithful harp shall praise thee.'

The Minstrel fell! but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure
They shall never sound in slavery!"

and free,

T. MOORE.

46. NIGHT.

IGHT is the time for rest;

NIGHT

How sweet, when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed!

Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life;

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Mix in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far,

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil
Its wealthy furrows yield,
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sung, and heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels at their birth,
But died when young, like things of earth.

Night is the time to pray;

Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do,

Steal from the throng to haunts untrod,
And commune there alone with God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,

Calmly to yield the weary breath,
From sin and suffering cease,-

Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends;-that death be mine.

J. MONTGOMERY.

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device—
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung

The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above the spectral glaciers shone,
But from his lips escaped a groan,-
Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
But loud that clarion voice replied —
Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd with a sigh,-
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch; Beware the awful avalanche ! "

This was the peasant's last Good-night;
A voice replied, far up the height,-
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,

A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by a faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping, in his hand of ice,
That banner with the strange device, –
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

LONGFELLOW.

48. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet,

A foggy day in winter time,)

A woman on the road I met,

Not old, though something past her prime;
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;

And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead;

Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred

Such strength, a dignity so fair :

She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate;
I look'd at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
"What is it," said I," that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your cloak,

Protected from this cold damp air?"
She answer'd, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing-bird.”
And, thus continuing, she said,

"I had a son, who many a day

Sail'd on the seas, but he is dead;

In Denmark he was cast away:

And I have travell'd weary miles to see

If aught which he had own'd might still remain for me.

"The bird and cage they both were his :

'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages

This singing-bird had gone with him;

When last he sail'd, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

"He to a fellow-lodger's care

Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety;

- there

I found it when my son was dead;

And now, God help me for my little wit!

I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it."

WORDSWORTH.