"Avoid thee, fiend! with cruel hand
"Shake not the dying sinner's sand; -
"O look, my son, upon that sign
"Of the Redeemer's grace divine!

แ

"O think on faith and bliss!

By many a death-bed I have been "And many a sinner's parting seen, "But never aught like this!" The war, that for a space did fail, Now trebly thundering, swell'd the gale, And-STANLEY! was the

cry;

A light on Marmion's visage spread,
And fired his glazing eye;-
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,
And shouted "Victory!".

"Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

80. A FATHER READING THE BIBLE.

WAS early day, and sunlight stream'd

TWAS

Soft through a quiet room,

That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd,
Still, but with nought of gloom.
For there, serene in happy age,
Whose hope is from above,
A father communed with the page
Of Heaven's recorded love.

Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright,
On his grey holy hair,

And touch'd the page with tenderest light,
As if its shrine were there!
But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone

With something lovelier far-
A radiance all the spirit's own,
Caught not from sun or star.

Some word of life e'en then had met
His calm benignant eye;

Some ancient promise, breathing yet
Of immortality;

Some martyr's prayer, wherein the glow
Of quenchless faith survives:
every feature said-" I know
That my Redeemer lives!"

For

And silent stood his children by,
Hushing their very breath,
Before the solemn sanctity

Of thoughts o'ersweeping death.
Silent-yet did not each young breast
With love and reverence melt?
Oh! blest be those fair girls, and blest
That home where God is felt.

MRS. HEMANS.

81. THE HOLLY TREE.

READER! hast thou ever stood to see

0 The holly tree?

The eye, that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves,

Order'd by an intelligence so wise

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen!

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize:

And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away;

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves their fadeless lines display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree:

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

gay,

SOUTHEY.

82. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can;

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray

and preach;

He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees its close:
Something attempted, something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose.

K