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“I used to hear the traveler's voice,
As here he passed along;
Singing her evening song.
In fear he hastens by ;
In vain for succor cry.
• I used to see the youths row down,
And watch the dripping oar,
Came softened to the shore.
I now see floating down
And leave this leaguered town."
" I shall go on,” king Henry cried,
“And conquer this good land;
Hath. given it to my hand ?".
And angrily looked down ;-
More solemn was his frown.
“Thou conqueror king, repent in time,
Or dread the coming wo;
And soon shall feel the blow !"
As the hermit went his way;
Upon his dying day
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.-Anonymous.
The sun had just retired; the dews of eve
Their glow-worm lustre scattered o'er the vale ; T'he lonely nightingale began to grieve,
Telling, with many a pause, her tenderest tale.
"Twas then, where peasant footsteps marked the way,
A wounded soldier feebly moved along; Nor aught regarded he the softening ray,
Nor the melodious bird's expressive song.
On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew,
Unsightly remnants of the battle's rage ; While pity, in his youthful form might view
A helpless prematurity of age.
Then, as with strange contortions, laboring slow,
He gained the summit of his native hill,
The farm, the cot, the hamlet and the mill ;
In spite of fortitude, one struggling sigh
Shook the firm texture of his tortured heart; And from his hollow and dejected eye
One trembling tear hung ready to depart.
“How changed,” he cried, “is the fair scene to me,
Since last across this narrow path I went! The soaring lark felt not superior glee,
Nor any human breast more true content.
“Oh hapless day! when, at a neighboring wake,
The gaudy sergeant caught my wondering eye ; And as his tongue of war and honor spake,
I felt a wish—to conquer or to die!
“ Then, while he bound the ribands on my brow,
He talk'd of captains kind, and generals good;
“ Yet I refused that bounty,—I disdained
To sell my service in a righteous cause ; And such, (to my dull sense it was explained)
The cause of monarchs, justice and the laws.
“The rattling drums beat loud, the fifes began,My king and country seem'd to ask
aid ; Through every vein the thrilling ardor ran, — I left my humble cot, my village maid.
"Ob hapless day! torn from my Lucy's eharmo,
1 thence was hurried to a scene of strife, To painful marches, and the din of arms
The wreck of reason, and the waste of life.
“In lothsome vessels now with crowds confined,
Now led with hosts to slaughter in the field ;Now backward driven, like leaves before the wind,
Too weak to stand, and yet ashamed to yield;
“ Till oft-repeated victories inspired
With tenfold fury the indignant foe; Who ruthless still advanced as we retired,
And laid our boasted, proudest honors low.
Through frozen deserts then compelled to fly,
Our est legions moldered fast away ;Thousands, of wounds and sickness left to die,
While hovering ravens marked them for their prey.
66 Oh! be this warfare of the world accursed!
The son now weeps not on the father's bier; But gray-haired, (for nature is reversed)
Drops o'er his children's grave an icy tear."
He spoke ;-and now by varying passions tossed,
He reached the threshold of his father's shed; Who knew not of his fate, yet mourned him lost
Amid the number of the unnamed dead.
Soon as they heard' his well-remembered voice,
A ray of rapture chased habitual care; “Our Henry lives—we may again rejoice;"
And Lucy sweetly blushed, for she was there.
But when he entered in such horrid guise
His mother shrieked, and dropped upon the floor; His father looked to heaven with streaming eyes,
And his dear Lucy sunk-to rise no more!
12. ANDREW JONES.- -Wordsworth.
“I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed His children up to waste and pillage ;
I wish the press-gang or the drum,
With its tantara sounds would come, And sweep him from the village !"
I said not this, because he loves
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done, A friendless man-a traveling cripple!
For this poor crawling, helpless wretch,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor cripple was alone
Inch thick the dust lay on the ground,
So with his staff, the cripple wrought
Among the dust, till he had brought The half-pennies together.
It chanced that Andrew passed that way, Just at the time; and there he found
The cripple at the midday heat,
Standing alone, and at his feet He saw the penny on the ground.
He stooped and took the penny up,
Quoth Andrew, “under half a crown
What a man finds is all his own, And so my friend, good day to you.”.
And hence I said that Andrew's boys
And wished the press-gang or the drum,
With its tantara sounds would come, : And sweep him from the village.
THE WIDOWED MOTHER.
Beside her babe, who sweetly slept,
of love gone by; And as the sobs thick-gathering came, She murmured her dead husband's name
'Mid that sad lullaby.
Well might that lullaby be sad,
On this cold-hearted earth :
Who gave the orphan birth.
Steadfastly as a star doth look
She gazed upon the bosom And fair brow of her sleeping son" Oh merciful heaven! when I am gone,
Thine is this earthly blossom."
While thus she sat, a sunbeam broke
And from his cradle smiled!
The mother or the child !
With joy fresh-sprung from short alarms,
And to her bosom leapt-
“Forgive me that I wept !"
Sufferings there are from nature sprung,
May venture to declare;
She can herself repair !