Part 4 (2/2)

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

SWEET AND LOW.

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dropping moon and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE VIOLET.

”The Violet,” by Jane Taylor (1783-1824), is another of those dear old-fas.h.i.+oned poems, pure poetry and pure violet. It is included in this volume out of respect to my own love for it when I was a child.

Down in a green and shady bed A modest violet grew; Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower, No colours bright and fair; It might have graced a rosy bower, Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom, In modest tints arrayed; And there diffused its sweet perfume, Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go, This pretty flower to see; That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.

JANE TAYLOR.

THE RAINBOW.

(A FRAGMENT.)

”The Rainbow,” by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every child's feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it ”a bridge to heaven.”

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!

The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

”A Visit From St. Nicholas,” by Clement Clarke Moore (1779-1863) is the most popular Christmas poem ever written. It carries Santa Claus on from year to year and the spirit of Santa Claus.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

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