HEN AND CHICKENS.

1 The sheep were in the fold at night,And now a new-born lambTotters and trembles in the light,Or bleats beside its dam.2 How anxiously the mother tries,With every tender care,To screen it from inclement skies,And the cold morning air!3 The hailstorm of the east is fled,She seems with joy to swell,Whilst ever as she bends her head,I hear the tinkling bell.4 So while for me a mother's prayerAscends to heaven above,May I repay her tender careWith gratitude and love!

1 The sheep were in the fold at night,And now a new-born lambTotters and trembles in the light,Or bleats beside its dam.

2 How anxiously the mother tries,With every tender care,To screen it from inclement skies,And the cold morning air!

3 The hailstorm of the east is fled,She seems with joy to swell,Whilst ever as she bends her head,I hear the tinkling bell.

4 So while for me a mother's prayerAscends to heaven above,May I repay her tender careWith gratitude and love!

1 See, sister, where the chickens trip,All busy in the morn!Look how their heads they dip and dip,To peck the scattered corn!2 Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,And to the sight be blind,Nor think ofHimwho food suppliesTo us and all mankind?3 Whether our wants be much or few,Or fine or coarse our fare,To Heaven's protecting care is dueThe voice of praise and prayer.

1 See, sister, where the chickens trip,All busy in the morn!Look how their heads they dip and dip,To peck the scattered corn!

2 Dear sister, shall we shut our eyes,And to the sight be blind,Nor think ofHimwho food suppliesTo us and all mankind?

3 Whether our wants be much or few,Or fine or coarse our fare,To Heaven's protecting care is dueThe voice of praise and prayer.

1 Old Andrews of the hut is dead,And many a child appears,Whilst slowly "dust to dust" is read,Around his grave in tears.2 A good man gone where small and great,And poor, and high and low,And Dives, proud in worldly state,And Lazarus, must go.3 May we among the just be found,Though short our sojourn here,Who, when the trump of death shall sound,May hear it without fear!

1 Old Andrews of the hut is dead,And many a child appears,Whilst slowly "dust to dust" is read,Around his grave in tears.

2 A good man gone where small and great,And poor, and high and low,And Dives, proud in worldly state,And Lazarus, must go.

3 May we among the just be found,Though short our sojourn here,Who, when the trump of death shall sound,May hear it without fear!

1 The Sabbath bells are knolling slow,The summer morn how fair!Whilst father, mother, children go,And seek the house of prayer.2 Some, musing, roam the churchyard round,Some turn their heads with sighs,And gaze upon the new-made groundWhere old Giles Summers lies.3 But see the pastor in his band,The bells have ceased to knoll;Now enter, and at God's command,Think, Christian, of thy soul.4 Whilst heavenly hopes around thee shine,As in God's presence live,And calmer comforts shall be thine,Than all the world can give.

1 The Sabbath bells are knolling slow,The summer morn how fair!Whilst father, mother, children go,And seek the house of prayer.

2 Some, musing, roam the churchyard round,Some turn their heads with sighs,And gaze upon the new-made groundWhere old Giles Summers lies.

3 But see the pastor in his band,The bells have ceased to knoll;Now enter, and at God's command,Think, Christian, of thy soul.

4 Whilst heavenly hopes around thee shine,As in God's presence live,And calmer comforts shall be thine,Than all the world can give.

1 'Tis the first primrose! see how meek,Yet beautiful, it looks;As just a lesson it may teachAs that we read in books.2 While gardens show in flowering prideThe lily's stately ranks,It loves its modest head to hideBeneath the bramble banks.3 And so the little cottage maidMay bloom unseen and die;But she, when transient flowerets fade,Shall live with Christ on high.

1 'Tis the first primrose! see how meek,Yet beautiful, it looks;As just a lesson it may teachAs that we read in books.

2 While gardens show in flowering prideThe lily's stately ranks,It loves its modest head to hideBeneath the bramble banks.

3 And so the little cottage maidMay bloom unseen and die;But she, when transient flowerets fade,Shall live with Christ on high.

1 As by my mother's side I stand,Whose hairs, alas, are few and gray,I watch the hour-glass shed its sand,To mark how wears the night away.2 Though age must many ills endure,As time for ever runs away,This shows her Christian comforts sure,And leads to heaven's eternal day.

1 As by my mother's side I stand,Whose hairs, alas, are few and gray,I watch the hour-glass shed its sand,To mark how wears the night away.

2 Though age must many ills endure,As time for ever runs away,This shows her Christian comforts sure,And leads to heaven's eternal day.

1 In yonder brake there is a nest;But come not, George, too nigh,Lest the poor mother, frightened thence,Should leave her young, and fly!2 Think with what pain, for many a day,Soft moss and straw she brought;And let our own dear mother's careBe present to our thought.3 And think how must her heart deplore,And droop with grief and pain,If those she reared, and nursed, and loved,She ne'er should see again.

1 In yonder brake there is a nest;But come not, George, too nigh,Lest the poor mother, frightened thence,Should leave her young, and fly!

2 Think with what pain, for many a day,Soft moss and straw she brought;And let our own dear mother's careBe present to our thought.

3 And think how must her heart deplore,And droop with grief and pain,If those she reared, and nursed, and loved,She ne'er should see again.

1 Hark to the mower's whistling blade!How steadily he mows!The grass is heaped, the daisies fade,All scattered as he goes.2 The flowers of life may bloom and fade,But He in whom I trust,Though cold and in my grave-clothes laid,Can raise me from the dust.

1 Hark to the mower's whistling blade!How steadily he mows!The grass is heaped, the daisies fade,All scattered as he goes.

2 The flowers of life may bloom and fade,But He in whom I trust,Though cold and in my grave-clothes laid,Can raise me from the dust.

1 Come, let us, ere we go to bed,O'er the decaying embers chat,Though little Mary hangs her head,And strokes no more the purring cat.2 And let us tell how prisoners pineIn silent dungeons dark and drear;Whilst on each face the embers shine,And all is calm and peaceful here.3 The English cot is free from cares;But, see, the brand is wasted quite;Come, little Mary, say your prayers;Kiss, mother, kiss! good night, good night!

1 Come, let us, ere we go to bed,O'er the decaying embers chat,Though little Mary hangs her head,And strokes no more the purring cat.

2 And let us tell how prisoners pineIn silent dungeons dark and drear;Whilst on each face the embers shine,And all is calm and peaceful here.

3 The English cot is free from cares;But, see, the brand is wasted quite;Come, little Mary, say your prayers;Kiss, mother, kiss! good night, good night!

1 Let us unfold God's holy book,And by the taper's light,With hearts subdued, and sober look,So spend the Sabbath night.2 Where now the thoughts of anxious life,Its guilty pleasures, where?Here dies its loud and mourning strife,And all its sounds of care.3 Let other views our hearts engross,To our Redeemer true,Who seems expiring on the cross,To say, I died for you!

1 Let us unfold God's holy book,And by the taper's light,With hearts subdued, and sober look,So spend the Sabbath night.

2 Where now the thoughts of anxious life,Its guilty pleasures, where?Here dies its loud and mourning strife,And all its sounds of care.

3 Let other views our hearts engross,To our Redeemer true,Who seems expiring on the cross,To say, I died for you!

1 When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,Like drops of silver run,Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,To feel the cheering sun.2 She sees no rainbow in the sky,But when the cuckoo sung,She thought upon the years gone by,When she was blithe and young.3 But God, who comforts want and age,Shall be her only friend,And bless her till her pilgrimageIn silent dust shall end.

1 When rain-drops, glistening from the thatch,Like drops of silver run,Our old blind grandame lifts the latch,To feel the cheering sun.

2 She sees no rainbow in the sky,But when the cuckoo sung,She thought upon the years gone by,When she was blithe and young.

3 But God, who comforts want and age,Shall be her only friend,And bless her till her pilgrimageIn silent dust shall end.

1 Poor Robin sits and sings aloneWhen showers of driving sleet,By the cold winds of winter blown,The cottage casement beat.2 Come, let him share our chimney nook,And dry his dripping wing;See, little Mary shuts her book,And cries, "Poor Robin, sing!"3 Methinks I hear his faint reply:When cowslips deck the plain,The lark shall carol in the sky,And I shall sing again.4 But in the cold and wintry day,To you I owe a debt,That in the sunshine of the MayI never can forget!

1 Poor Robin sits and sings aloneWhen showers of driving sleet,By the cold winds of winter blown,The cottage casement beat.

2 Come, let him share our chimney nook,And dry his dripping wing;See, little Mary shuts her book,And cries, "Poor Robin, sing!"

3 Methinks I hear his faint reply:When cowslips deck the plain,The lark shall carol in the sky,And I shall sing again.

4 But in the cold and wintry day,To you I owe a debt,That in the sunshine of the MayI never can forget!

1 Methought I heard a butterflySay to a labouring bee,Thou hast no colours of the skyOn painted wings, like me.2 Poor child of vanity! those dyes,And colours bright and rare,With mild reproof, the bee replies,Are all beneath my care.3 Content I toil from morn till eve,And, scorning idleness,To tribes of gawdy sloth I leaveThe vanities of dress.

1 Methought I heard a butterflySay to a labouring bee,Thou hast no colours of the skyOn painted wings, like me.

2 Poor child of vanity! those dyes,And colours bright and rare,With mild reproof, the bee replies,Are all beneath my care.

3 Content I toil from morn till eve,And, scorning idleness,To tribes of gawdy sloth I leaveThe vanities of dress.

1 Oh, what is this which shines so bright,And in the lonely placeHangs out his small green lamp at night,The dewy bank to grace!2 It is a glow-worm, still and paleIt shines the whole night long,When only stars, O nightingale,Seem listening to thy song!3 And so amid the world's cold night,Through good report or ill,Shines out the humble Christian's light,As lonely and as still.

1 Oh, what is this which shines so bright,And in the lonely placeHangs out his small green lamp at night,The dewy bank to grace!

2 It is a glow-worm, still and paleIt shines the whole night long,When only stars, O nightingale,Seem listening to thy song!

3 And so amid the world's cold night,Through good report or ill,Shines out the humble Christian's light,As lonely and as still.

Luke Andrews is transported! Never moreTo see his sisters, mother, or the shoreOf his own country! Never more to seeThe cottage smoke rise o'er the sheltering tree;Never again beneath the morning beam,Jocund, to drive afield his tinkling team!When first the path of idleness he trod,And left on Sabbath-days the house of God,The fellowship of wild companions kept,How oft at night his mother waked and wept!When he is homeless, and far off at sea,She now will sigh, Does he remember me!Remember her! alas, the thought is vain!She ne'er will see him in this world again.And she is broken-hearted; but her trust,Is still in Him whose works and ways are just.Oh! may we still revere His dread command,And die remembered in our native land!

1 Though grandfather has long been blind,And his few locks are gray,He loves to hear the summer windRound his pale temples play.2 We'll lead him to some quiet place,Some unfrequented nook,Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers graceThe borders of the brook.3 There he shall sit, as in a dream,Though nought can he behold,Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seemThe voice of friends of old.4 Think no more of them, aged man,For here thou hast no friend;Think, since this life is but a span,Of joys that have no end.

1 Though grandfather has long been blind,And his few locks are gray,He loves to hear the summer windRound his pale temples play.

2 We'll lead him to some quiet place,Some unfrequented nook,Where winds breathe soft, and wild-flowers graceThe borders of the brook.

3 There he shall sit, as in a dream,Though nought can he behold,Till the brook's murmuring flow shall seemThe voice of friends of old.

4 Think no more of them, aged man,For here thou hast no friend;Think, since this life is but a span,Of joys that have no end.

1 Are you not tired, you poor old man!The drops are on your brow;Your labour with the sun began,And you are labouring now!2 I murmur not to dig the soil,For I have heard it read,That man by industry and toilMust eat his daily bread.3 The lark awakes me with his song,That hails the morning gray,And when I mourn for human wrong,I think of God, and pray.4 Let worldlings waste their time and health,And try each vain delight;They cannot buy, with all their wealth,The labourer's rest at night.

1 Are you not tired, you poor old man!The drops are on your brow;Your labour with the sun began,And you are labouring now!

2 I murmur not to dig the soil,For I have heard it read,That man by industry and toilMust eat his daily bread.

3 The lark awakes me with his song,That hails the morning gray,And when I mourn for human wrong,I think of God, and pray.

4 Let worldlings waste their time and health,And try each vain delight;They cannot buy, with all their wealth,The labourer's rest at night.

1 Look at the swan! how still he goes!His neck and breast like silver gleam;He seems majestic as he rows;The glory of the lonely stream.2 There is a glory in the war,A glory when the warrior wears(His visage marked with many a scar)The laurel wet with human tears.3 Such scenes no glory can impart,With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,Like that which fills his silent heartWho walks with God in quietude.

1 Look at the swan! how still he goes!His neck and breast like silver gleam;He seems majestic as he rows;The glory of the lonely stream.

2 There is a glory in the war,A glory when the warrior wears(His visage marked with many a scar)The laurel wet with human tears.

3 Such scenes no glory can impart,With trumps, and drums, and noises rude,Like that which fills his silent heartWho walks with God in quietude.

1. Who does not love the village bells,Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll!Oneof the rustic wedding tells,Andonebespeaks a parting soul.2 The lark in sunshine sings his song,And, dressed in garments white and gay,The village lasses trip along,For this is Susan's wedding-day.3 Ah! gather flowers of sweetest hue,Young violets from the bank's green side,And on poor Mary's coffin strew,For in the bloom of life she died.4 So passes life! the smile, the tear,Succeed, as in our path we stray,Thy kingdom come, for we are hereAs guests who tarry but a day.

1. Who does not love the village bells,Their cheerful peal, and solemn toll!Oneof the rustic wedding tells,Andonebespeaks a parting soul.

2 The lark in sunshine sings his song,And, dressed in garments white and gay,The village lasses trip along,For this is Susan's wedding-day.

3 Ah! gather flowers of sweetest hue,Young violets from the bank's green side,And on poor Mary's coffin strew,For in the bloom of life she died.

4 So passes life! the smile, the tear,Succeed, as in our path we stray,Thy kingdom come, for we are hereAs guests who tarry but a day.

Oh, who would keep a little bird confined,When cowslip bells are nodding in the wind;When every hedge as with "good morrow" rings,And, heard from wood to coombe, the blackbird sings!Oh! who would keep a little bird confinedIn his cold wiry prison? Let him fly,And hear him sing: How sweet is liberty!

Brother and sister are a-Maying gone;By my sick father's bed I watch alone;Light in the sun, from field to field they roam,To bring a cowslip-ball or May-thorn home;I sit and read of Joseph, in the landOf Egypt, when his guilty brothers standBefore him—but they know him not; asideHe turns his face, the bursting tears to hide:Scarce to these words an utterance can he give;I am your brother Joseph! Doth he live,My father, the old man of whom ye speak?And tears are falling on my father's cheek.Though my loved mother rests among the dead,And pain and sickness visit this sad bed,We think not, whilst we turn the holy page,Of this vain world—of sorrow and of age!And oh, my father, I am blessed indeed,Blessed for your sake, that I have learned to read!

1 Dear Mary, if thy little birdShould, all the winter long,Pleased from the window to be heard,Repay thee with a song;2 A lesson let it still conveyTo all with sense endued;And such the voice, oh! let it say,The still small voice of love.

1 Dear Mary, if thy little birdShould, all the winter long,Pleased from the window to be heard,Repay thee with a song;

2 A lesson let it still conveyTo all with sense endued;And such the voice, oh! let it say,The still small voice of love.

1 My dog and I are both grown old;On these wild downs we watch all day;He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,And thus methinks I hear him say:2 The gray stone circlet is below,The village smoke is at our feet;We nothing hear but the sailing crow,And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.3 Far off, the early horseman hies,In shower or sunshine rushing on;Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;The distant coach is seen and gone.4 Though solitude around is spread,Master, alone thou shalt not be;And when the turf is on thy head,I only shall remember thee!5 I marked his look of faithful care,I placed my hand on his shaggy side;There is a sun that shines above,A sun that shines on both, I cried.

1 My dog and I are both grown old;On these wild downs we watch all day;He looks in my face when the wind blows cold,And thus methinks I hear him say:

2 The gray stone circlet is below,The village smoke is at our feet;We nothing hear but the sailing crow,And wandering flocks, that roam and bleat.

3 Far off, the early horseman hies,In shower or sunshine rushing on;Yonder the dusty whirlwind flies;The distant coach is seen and gone.

4 Though solitude around is spread,Master, alone thou shalt not be;And when the turf is on thy head,I only shall remember thee!

5 I marked his look of faithful care,I placed my hand on his shaggy side;There is a sun that shines above,A sun that shines on both, I cried.

1 Oh! mark the withered leaves that fallIn silence to the ground;Upon the human heart they call,And preach without a sound.2 They say, So passes man's brief year!To-day, his green leaves wave;To-morrow, changed by time, and sere,He drops into the grave.3 Let Wisdom be our sole concern,Since life's green days are brief!And faith and heavenly hope shall learnA lesson from theLEAF.

1 Oh! mark the withered leaves that fallIn silence to the ground;Upon the human heart they call,And preach without a sound.

2 They say, So passes man's brief year!To-day, his green leaves wave;To-morrow, changed by time, and sere,He drops into the grave.

3 Let Wisdom be our sole concern,Since life's green days are brief!And faith and heavenly hope shall learnA lesson from theLEAF.

1 When now cold winter's snows are fled,And birds sing blithe again,Look where the gipsy's tent is spread,In the green village lane.2 Oft by the old park pales, beneathThe branches of the oak,The watchdog barks, when, in slow wreath,Curls o'er the woods the smoke.3 No home receives the wandering race;The panniered ass is nigh,Which patient bears from place to placeTheir infant progeny.4 Lo! houseless o'ertheworld they stray,But I at home will dwell,Where I may read my book and pray,And hear the Sabbath-bell.

1 When now cold winter's snows are fled,And birds sing blithe again,Look where the gipsy's tent is spread,In the green village lane.

2 Oft by the old park pales, beneathThe branches of the oak,The watchdog barks, when, in slow wreath,Curls o'er the woods the smoke.

3 No home receives the wandering race;The panniered ass is nigh,Which patient bears from place to placeTheir infant progeny.

4 Lo! houseless o'ertheworld they stray,But I at home will dwell,Where I may read my book and pray,And hear the Sabbath-bell.

1 My father's grave, I heard her say,And marked a stealing tear;Oh, no! I would not go away,My father's grave is here!2 A thousand thronging sympathiesThe lonely spot endear,And every eve remembrance sighs,My father's grave is here!3 Some sudden tears unbidden start,As spring's gay birds I hear,For all things whisper to my heart,My father's grave is here!4 Young hope may blend each colour gay,And fairer views appear;But, no! I will not go away,My father's grave is here!

1 My father's grave, I heard her say,And marked a stealing tear;Oh, no! I would not go away,My father's grave is here!

2 A thousand thronging sympathiesThe lonely spot endear,And every eve remembrance sighs,My father's grave is here!

3 Some sudden tears unbidden start,As spring's gay birds I hear,For all things whisper to my heart,My father's grave is here!

4 Young hope may blend each colour gay,And fairer views appear;But, no! I will not go away,My father's grave is here!

The swallows, at the close of day,When autumn shone with fainter ray,Around the chimney circling flew,Ere yet they bade a long adieu,To climes where soon the winter drearShall close the unrejoicing year.Now with swift wing they skim aloof,Now settle on the crowded roof,As counsel and advice to take,Ere they the chilly north forsake.Then one, disdainful, turned his eye,Upon a red-breast twittering nigh,And thus began, with taunting scorn:Thou household imp, obscure, forlorn,Through the deep winter's dreary day,Here, dull and shivering, shalt thou stay;Whilst we, who make the world our home,To softer climes impatient roam,Where summer, still on some green isleRests, with her sweet and lovely smile?Thus speeding, far and far away,We leave behind the shortening day.'Tis true (the red-breast answered, meek)No other scenes I ask, or seek;To every change alike resigned,I fear not the cold winter's wind.When spring returns, the circling yearShall find me still contented here;But whilst my warm affections restWithin the circle of my nest,I learn to pity those that roam,And love the more my humble home.

There is a poor blind man, who, every day,In summer sunshine, or in winter's rain,Duly as tolls the bell, to the high faneExplores, with faltering footsteps, his dark way,To kneel before his Maker, and to hearThe chaunted service, pealing full and clear.Ask why alone in the same spot he kneelsThrough the long year. Oh, the wide world is cold,As dark, to him! Here he no longer feelsHis sad bereavement. Faith and Hope upholdHis heart; he feels not he is poor and blind,Amid the unpitying tumult of his mind.As through the aisles the choral anthems roll,His soul is in the choirs above the skies,And songs far off of angel companies,When this dim earth hath perished like a scroll.Oh! happy if the rich, the vain, the proud—The plumed actors in life's motley crowd—Since pride is dust, and life itself a span,Would learn one lesson from a poor blind man!

1 Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,Old soldier!2 The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,No longer are heard on the battle-field red;Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,Old soldier!3 Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient landWhere the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,Old soldier!4 Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,Old soldier!5 That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,Old soldier!6 Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,Or turn from a desolate father away,That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,Old soldier!7 But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,Old soldier!8 Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,Old England for ever, and God save the King!Old soldier!

1 Old soldier! old soldier! the beams of the day,That shone on thy sabre, have long passed away,And thy sun is gone down, and thy few hairs are gray,Old soldier!

2 The drum and the hurrahs, where victory led,No longer are heard on the battle-field red;Thy comrades in glory are scattered or dead,Old soldier!

3 Perhaps thou wert foremost of some gallant band,By Acre's white walls, or in that ancient landWhere the sphynx and gray pyramid shaded the sand,Old soldier!

4 Left lonely and poor, but to fortune resigned,Forgetting the trumpet that clanged in the wind,Thou turnest thy organ unnoticed and blind,Old soldier!

5 That faded red jacket still speaks of some pride,And a dutiful daughter is seen at thy side,To beat her light drum, and thy footsteps to guide,Old soldier!

6 Ah! woe to the heart that would seek to betray,Or turn from a desolate father away,That dutiful child, of thy age the last stay,Old soldier!

7 But may every true Briton, whose country is dear,Bestow a small boon, now the season is drear,Thy warm chimney corner at Christmas to cheer,Old soldier!

8 Then the thought of the days of past glory shall spring,And wiping one tear from thy cheek, thou shalt sing,Old England for ever, and God save the King!Old soldier!

1 They sing of the poor sailor-boy, who wanders o'er the deep,But few there are who think upon the friendless little sweep!In darkness to his dreary toil, through winter's frost and snows,When the keen north wind is piping shrill, the shivering urchin goes.2 He has no father; and from grief, his mother's eyes are dim,And none beside, in all the world, awakes to pray for him;For him no summer Sundays smile, no health is in the breeze;His mind is dark as his face, a prey to dire disease.[192]3 O English gentlemen! your hearts have bled for the black slave,—You heard his melancholy moan from the Atlantic wave;He thought upon his father's land, and cried, A long farewell,But blessed you, gazing at the sun, when first his fetters fell.4 And if ye plead for creatures dumb, and deem their fate severe,Shallhumanwrongs, inyour ownland, call forth no generous tear?Humanity implores; awake from apathy's cold sleep,And when you plead for others' wrongs, forget not the poor sweep.5 When summer comes, the bells shall ring, and flowers and hawthorns blow,The village lasses and the lads shall all a-Maying go:Kind-hearted lady, may thy soul in heaven a blessing reap,Whose bounty at that season flows, to cheer the little sweep.[193]6 'Tis yours, ye English gentlemen, such comforts to prolong;'Tis yours the friendless to protect, and all who suffer wrong;Butoneday in the toiling year the friendless sweep is gay,Protect, and smiling industry shall make his long year May.

2 He has no father; and from grief, his mother's eyes are dim,And none beside, in all the world, awakes to pray for him;For him no summer Sundays smile, no health is in the breeze;His mind is dark as his face, a prey to dire disease.[192]

3 O English gentlemen! your hearts have bled for the black slave,—You heard his melancholy moan from the Atlantic wave;He thought upon his father's land, and cried, A long farewell,But blessed you, gazing at the sun, when first his fetters fell.

4 And if ye plead for creatures dumb, and deem their fate severe,Shallhumanwrongs, inyour ownland, call forth no generous tear?Humanity implores; awake from apathy's cold sleep,And when you plead for others' wrongs, forget not the poor sweep.

5 When summer comes, the bells shall ring, and flowers and hawthorns blow,The village lasses and the lads shall all a-Maying go:Kind-hearted lady, may thy soul in heaven a blessing reap,Whose bounty at that season flows, to cheer the little sweep.[193]

6 'Tis yours, ye English gentlemen, such comforts to prolong;'Tis yours the friendless to protect, and all who suffer wrong;Butoneday in the toiling year the friendless sweep is gay,Protect, and smiling industry shall make his long year May.

1 How cheerful in the winter's night,As down the lane I stray;The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,And shines across the way!2 The smith his labouring bellows blows,And now his stroke repeats;Beats the red iron, as it glows,And shapes it as he beats.3 While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,And tongs are hissing red;Content and cheerful industrySweeten his daily bread.

1 How cheerful in the winter's night,As down the lane I stray;The blacksmith's forge shoots out its light,And shines across the way!

2 The smith his labouring bellows blows,And now his stroke repeats;Beats the red iron, as it glows,And shapes it as he beats.

3 While, flash! the frequent sparkles fly,And tongs are hissing red;Content and cheerful industrySweeten his daily bread.

1 Lo! where youth and beauty lie,Cold within the tomb!As the spring's first violets die,Withered in their bloom.O'er the young and buried bride,Let the cypress wave:A kingdom's hope, a kingdom's pride,Recline in yonder grave.2 Place the vain expected child,Gently, near her breast!It never wept, it never smiled,But seeks its mother's rest.Hark! we hear the general cry!Hark! the passing bell!A thousand, thousand bosoms sigh,A long and last farewell!

2 Place the vain expected child,Gently, near her breast!It never wept, it never smiled,But seeks its mother's rest.Hark! we hear the general cry!Hark! the passing bell!A thousand, thousand bosoms sigh,A long and last farewell!

1 On God, whose eyes are over all,Who shows to all a father's care,First, with each voice, we children call,And humbly raise our daily prayer.2 And next, to her, who placed us here,The path of knowledge to pursue,(Oh! witness all we have—a tear!)Our heartfelt gratitude is due.3 Our parents, when they draw their breath,In pain, and to the grave descend,Shall smile upon the bed of death,To think their children have a friend.4 As slow our infant thoughts expand,And life unfolds its opening road,We still shall bless the bounteous handThat kind protection first bestowed.5 And still, with fervour we shall pray,When she to distant scenes shall go;That God, in blessing, might repayThe blessings which to her we owe!

1 On God, whose eyes are over all,Who shows to all a father's care,First, with each voice, we children call,And humbly raise our daily prayer.

2 And next, to her, who placed us here,The path of knowledge to pursue,(Oh! witness all we have—a tear!)Our heartfelt gratitude is due.

3 Our parents, when they draw their breath,In pain, and to the grave descend,Shall smile upon the bed of death,To think their children have a friend.

4 As slow our infant thoughts expand,And life unfolds its opening road,We still shall bless the bounteous handThat kind protection first bestowed.

5 And still, with fervour we shall pray,When she to distant scenes shall go;That God, in blessing, might repayThe blessings which to her we owe!

1 Who comes (my soul no longer doubt),Rising from earth's wormy sod,And whilst ten thousand angels sing,Ascends—ascends to heaven, a God?2 Saviour, Lord, I know thee now!Mighty to redeem and save,Such glory blazes on thy brow,Which lights the darkness of the grave.3 Saviour, Lord, the human soul,Forgotten every sorrow here,Shall thus, aspiring to its goal,Triumph in its native sphere.

1 Who comes (my soul no longer doubt),Rising from earth's wormy sod,And whilst ten thousand angels sing,Ascends—ascends to heaven, a God?

2 Saviour, Lord, I know thee now!Mighty to redeem and save,Such glory blazes on thy brow,Which lights the darkness of the grave.

3 Saviour, Lord, the human soul,Forgotten every sorrow here,Shall thus, aspiring to its goal,Triumph in its native sphere.

1 Hark! angel voices from the skyProclaim a Saviour's birth;Glory, they sing, to God on high,Peace and goodwill on earth!2 Catch the glad strain, ye seraphs bright!The glorious tidings spread;Wake, wake to wonder and to light,The dark sleep of the dead!3 Let the wide earth, from shore to shore,One loud hosannah raise,Glory to God, whom we adore,Glory and hymns of praise!

1 Hark! angel voices from the skyProclaim a Saviour's birth;Glory, they sing, to God on high,Peace and goodwill on earth!

2 Catch the glad strain, ye seraphs bright!The glorious tidings spread;Wake, wake to wonder and to light,The dark sleep of the dead!

3 Let the wide earth, from shore to shore,One loud hosannah raise,Glory to God, whom we adore,Glory and hymns of praise!

FOOTNOTES:[192]The terrible soot cancer to which climbing boys are subject.[193]The late Mrs Montague, whose bounty, distributed on May-day, to climbing boys, is so well known.

[192]The terrible soot cancer to which climbing boys are subject.

[193]The late Mrs Montague, whose bounty, distributed on May-day, to climbing boys, is so well known.

1 The Cid is sitting, in martial state,Within Valencia's wall;And chiefs of high renown attendThe knightly festival.2 Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troopOf gallant men, were there;And there came Donna Ximena,His wife and daughters fair.3 When the footpage bent on his knee,What tidings brought he then?Morocco's king is on the seas,With fifty thousand men.4 Now God be praised! the Cid he cried,Let every hold be stored:Let fly the holy Gonfalon,[195]And give, "St James," the word.5 And now, upon the turret high,Was heard the signal drum;And loud the watchman blew his trump,And cried, They come! they come!6 The Cid then raised his sword on high,And by God's Mother swore,These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,Or bathe their base in gore.7 My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!Nay, hang not thus your head;For you shall see how well we fight;How soldiers earn their bread.8 We will go out against the Moors,And crush them in your sight;And all the Christians shouted loud,May God defend the right!9 He took his wife and daughter's hand,So resolute was he,And led them to the highest towerThat overlooks the sea.10 They saw how vast a pagan powerCame sailing o'er the brine;They saw, beneath the morning light,The Moorish crescents shine.11 These ladies then grew deadly pale,As heart-struck with dismay;And when they heard the tambours beat,They turned their heads away.12 The thronged streamers glittering flew,The sun was shining bright,Now cheer, the valiant Cid he cried,This is a glorious sight!13 Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,These fearful ladies stood,The Cid, he raised his sword, and cried,All this is for your good:14 Ere fifteen days are gone and past,If God assist the right,Those tambours that now sound to scare,Shall sound for your delight.15 The Moors who pressed beneath the towers,Now Allah! Allah! sung;Each Christian knight his broadsword drew,And loud the trumpets rung.16 Then up, the noble Cid bespoke,Let each brave warrior go,And arm himself, in dusk of morn,Ere chanticleer shall crow;17 And in the lofty minster church,On Santiago call,—That good Bishop Hieronymo,Shall there absolve you all.18 But let us prudent counsel take,In this eventful hour;For yon proud infidels, I ween,They are a mighty power.19 Then Alvar Fanez counselled well,I, noble Cid, will go,And ambush with three hundred men,Ere the first cock doth crow:20 And when against the Moorish menYou, Cid, lead on your powers,We, dauntless, on the other sideWill fall on them with ours.21 This counsel pleased theChieftainwell:He said, it should be so;And the good Bishop should sing mass,Ere the first cock did crow.22 The day is gone, the night is come;At cock-crow all appear,In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,And holy mass to hear:23 On Santiago there they called,To hear them and to save;And that good Bishop, at the mass,Great absolution gave.24 Fear not, he cried, when thousands bleed,When horse on man shall roll!Whoever dies, I take his sins,And God be with his soul.25 A boon! a boon! the Bishop cried,I have sung mass to-day;Let me the brunt of battle bear,Cid, in the bloody fray.26 Now Alvar Fanez and his menHad gained the thicket's shade;And, with hushed breath and anxious eye,Had there their ambush laid.27 Four thousand men, in glittering arms,All issued from the gate;Whilst the bold Cid, before them all,On Bavieca sate.28 They passed the ambush on the left,And marched o'er dale and down,Till soon they got the Moorish campBetwixt them and the town.29 The Cid then spurred his horse, and setThe battle in array.Pero Bermudez proudly boreHis standard on that day.30 When this the Moors astonied saw,Allah! began their cry:The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,As they would rend the sky.31 Banner, advance! the Cid he cried,And raised aloft his sword:And all the host set up the shout,St Mary and our Lord!32 That good Bishop Hieronymo,Bravely his battle bore;And shouted, as he spurred his steed,For bold Campeador!33 The Moorish and the Christian hostNow mix their dying cries;And many a horse along the plain,Without his rider flies.34 Now sinks the Crescent, now the Cross,As the fierce hosts assail;But what against o'erwhelming mightCan valour's self avail?35 Campeador, all bathed in blood,Spurred on his horse amain;And, Santiago! cried aloud,For Bivar and for Spain!36 Now Alvar Fanez and his men,Who crouched in thickets low,Leaped up, and, with the lightning glance,Rushed, shouting, on the foe.37 The Moors, who saw their pennons gayAll waving in the wind,Fled in dismay, for still they feared,A greater host behind.38 The Crescent falls. Pursue! pursue!Haste—spur along the plain!See where they sink—see where they lie,The fainting and the slain!39 Of fifty thousand, who at mornCame forth in armour bright,Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,To tell the tale at night.40 The Cid then wiped his bloody brow,And thus was heard to say:Well, Bavieca, hast thou sped,My noble horse, to-day!41 If thousands then escaped the sword,Let none the Cid condemn;For they were swept into the sea,And the surge went over them.42 There's many a maid of Tetuan,All day shall sit and weep,But never see her lover's sailShine on the northern deep.43 There's many a mother, with her babe,Shall pace the sounding shore,And think upon its father's smile,Whom she shall see no more.44 Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,Upon thy billowy bed;For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep,O'er thousands of the dead.

1 The Cid is sitting, in martial state,Within Valencia's wall;And chiefs of high renown attendThe knightly festival.

2 Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troopOf gallant men, were there;And there came Donna Ximena,His wife and daughters fair.

3 When the footpage bent on his knee,What tidings brought he then?Morocco's king is on the seas,With fifty thousand men.

4 Now God be praised! the Cid he cried,Let every hold be stored:Let fly the holy Gonfalon,[195]And give, "St James," the word.

5 And now, upon the turret high,Was heard the signal drum;And loud the watchman blew his trump,And cried, They come! they come!

6 The Cid then raised his sword on high,And by God's Mother swore,These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,Or bathe their base in gore.

7 My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!Nay, hang not thus your head;For you shall see how well we fight;How soldiers earn their bread.

8 We will go out against the Moors,And crush them in your sight;And all the Christians shouted loud,May God defend the right!

9 He took his wife and daughter's hand,So resolute was he,And led them to the highest towerThat overlooks the sea.

10 They saw how vast a pagan powerCame sailing o'er the brine;They saw, beneath the morning light,The Moorish crescents shine.

11 These ladies then grew deadly pale,As heart-struck with dismay;And when they heard the tambours beat,They turned their heads away.

12 The thronged streamers glittering flew,The sun was shining bright,Now cheer, the valiant Cid he cried,This is a glorious sight!

13 Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,These fearful ladies stood,The Cid, he raised his sword, and cried,All this is for your good:

14 Ere fifteen days are gone and past,If God assist the right,Those tambours that now sound to scare,Shall sound for your delight.

15 The Moors who pressed beneath the towers,Now Allah! Allah! sung;Each Christian knight his broadsword drew,And loud the trumpets rung.

16 Then up, the noble Cid bespoke,Let each brave warrior go,And arm himself, in dusk of morn,Ere chanticleer shall crow;

17 And in the lofty minster church,On Santiago call,—That good Bishop Hieronymo,Shall there absolve you all.

18 But let us prudent counsel take,In this eventful hour;For yon proud infidels, I ween,They are a mighty power.

19 Then Alvar Fanez counselled well,I, noble Cid, will go,And ambush with three hundred men,Ere the first cock doth crow:

20 And when against the Moorish menYou, Cid, lead on your powers,We, dauntless, on the other sideWill fall on them with ours.

21 This counsel pleased theChieftainwell:He said, it should be so;And the good Bishop should sing mass,Ere the first cock did crow.

22 The day is gone, the night is come;At cock-crow all appear,In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,And holy mass to hear:

23 On Santiago there they called,To hear them and to save;And that good Bishop, at the mass,Great absolution gave.

24 Fear not, he cried, when thousands bleed,When horse on man shall roll!Whoever dies, I take his sins,And God be with his soul.

25 A boon! a boon! the Bishop cried,I have sung mass to-day;Let me the brunt of battle bear,Cid, in the bloody fray.

26 Now Alvar Fanez and his menHad gained the thicket's shade;And, with hushed breath and anxious eye,Had there their ambush laid.

27 Four thousand men, in glittering arms,All issued from the gate;Whilst the bold Cid, before them all,On Bavieca sate.

28 They passed the ambush on the left,And marched o'er dale and down,Till soon they got the Moorish campBetwixt them and the town.

29 The Cid then spurred his horse, and setThe battle in array.Pero Bermudez proudly boreHis standard on that day.

30 When this the Moors astonied saw,Allah! began their cry:The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,As they would rend the sky.

31 Banner, advance! the Cid he cried,And raised aloft his sword:And all the host set up the shout,St Mary and our Lord!

32 That good Bishop Hieronymo,Bravely his battle bore;And shouted, as he spurred his steed,For bold Campeador!

33 The Moorish and the Christian hostNow mix their dying cries;And many a horse along the plain,Without his rider flies.

34 Now sinks the Crescent, now the Cross,As the fierce hosts assail;But what against o'erwhelming mightCan valour's self avail?

35 Campeador, all bathed in blood,Spurred on his horse amain;And, Santiago! cried aloud,For Bivar and for Spain!

36 Now Alvar Fanez and his men,Who crouched in thickets low,Leaped up, and, with the lightning glance,Rushed, shouting, on the foe.

37 The Moors, who saw their pennons gayAll waving in the wind,Fled in dismay, for still they feared,A greater host behind.

38 The Crescent falls. Pursue! pursue!Haste—spur along the plain!See where they sink—see where they lie,The fainting and the slain!

39 Of fifty thousand, who at mornCame forth in armour bright,Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,To tell the tale at night.

40 The Cid then wiped his bloody brow,And thus was heard to say:Well, Bavieca, hast thou sped,My noble horse, to-day!

41 If thousands then escaped the sword,Let none the Cid condemn;For they were swept into the sea,And the surge went over them.

42 There's many a maid of Tetuan,All day shall sit and weep,But never see her lover's sailShine on the northern deep.

43 There's many a mother, with her babe,Shall pace the sounding shore,And think upon its father's smile,Whom she shall see no more.

44 Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,Upon thy billowy bed;For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep,O'er thousands of the dead.

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