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With thy clear, keen joyance
Never came near thee;
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Than we mortals dream,
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
With some pain is fraught;
Yet if we could scorn
Hate and pride and fear;
Not to shed a tear,
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
That in books are found,
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
From my lips would flow,
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
HURRAH ! the seaward breezes
Sweep down the bay amain;
Run up the sail again !
The rail-car and the steed;
The breath of heaven shall speed.
Of frozen Labrador,
Along the low, black shore !
On Brador's rocks are shed,
Like black scud, overhead.
Hurrah ! for the Red Island
With the white cross on its crown!
With its mountains bare and brown !
Where the caribou's tall antlers
O’er the dwarf-wood freely toss, And the footstep of the Mickmack
Has no sound upon the moss.
Though the mist upon our jackets
In the bitter air congeals, And our lines wind stiff and slowly
From off the frozen reels; Though the fog be dark around us,
And the storm blow high and loud, We will whistle down the wild wind
And laugh beneath the cloud !
In the darkness as in daylight,
On the water as, on land, God's eye is looking on us
And beneath us is his hand ! Death will find us soon or later
On the deck or in the cot; And we cannot meet him better
Than in working out our lot. Hurrah! - hurrah! — the west wind
Comes freshening down the bay, The rising sails are filling;
Give way, my lads, give way ! Leave the coward landsman clinging
To the dull earth like a weed, The stars of heaven shall guide us
The breath of heaven shall speed !
MYSTERIOUS night! When our first parent knew
TO A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER THE EAVES
JANE WELSH CARLYLE.
Thou, too, hast travelled, little fluttering thing,
Thou, too, must rest.
To build thy nest.
For thou hast passed fair places in thy flight,
And strange thy taste,
To choose this waste.
Did fortune try thee? was thy little purse
Felt here secure ?
Alone is poor.
What was it then? Some mystic turn of thought
Marring thine eye
Not knowing why?
Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not ask,
With wing and beak.
Nor more need'st seek!
In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
And hast small care