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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 every Middlesex village and farm, –
A cry of defiance and not of fear, Gather, then, each flower that grows,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the When the young heart overflows,

To embalm that tent of snows.
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Bear a lily in thy hand;
Through all our history, to the last, Gates of brass cannot withstand
In the hour of darkness and peril and One touch of that magic wand.

The people will waken and listen to hear Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed In thy heart the dew of youth,
And the midnight message of Paul Re. On thy lips the smile of truth.

0, that dew, like balm, shall steal

Into wounds that cannot heal,

Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
MAIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, and that smile, like sunshine, dart
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies !

Into many a sunless heart,

For a smile of God thou art.
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run !

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Gazing, with a timid glance,

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,
Then why pause with indecision,

Was not spoken of the soul.
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?

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.



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