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Toward making, than repose on aught All men ignored in me, found made;
This I was worth to God, whose wheel So, better, age, exempt
the pitcher shaped. Froin strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death Ay, note that Potter's wheel, nor be afraid !
That metaphor! and feel
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our Enough now, if the Right
Thou, to whom fools propound,
“Since life fleets, all is change; the Past With knowledge absolute,
gone, seize to-day!"
Lasts ever, past recall;
stand sure: Be there, for once and all,
What entered into thee,
Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter
and clay endure.
Of plastic circumstance,
arrest: Now, who shall arbitrate ?
Machinery just meant Ten men love what I hate,
To give thy soul its bent, Shun what I follow, slight what I re- Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently ceive;
impressed. Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise,
What though the earlier grooves They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall Which ran the langhing loves my soul believe?
Around thy base, no longer pause and
press? Not on the vulgar mass
What though, about thy rim, Called “work," must sentence pass, Skull-things in order grim Things done, that took the eye and had Grow out, in graver mood, obey the the price;
sterner stress? O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand,
Look not thou down, but up! Found straightway to its mind, could To uses of a cup, value in a trice:
The festal board, lamp's flash, and trum.
pet's peal, But all, the world's coarse thumb The new wine's foaming flow, And finger failed to plumh,
The Master's lips aglow! So passed in making up the main account; Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what All instincts immature,
needst thou with earth's wheel? All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled But I need, now as then, the man's amount:
Thee, God, who mouldest men;
And since, not even while the whirl was Thoughts hardly to be packed
worst, Into a narrow act,
Did I to the wheel of life Fancies that broke through language and with shapes and colors rife, escaped;
Bound dizzily mistake my end, to All I could never be,
slake Thy thirst:
HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.
So, take and use Thy work!
There would be doubt, hesitation, and Amend what flaws may lurk,
pain, What strain o' the stuff, what warpings Forced praise on our part, – the glimmer past the aim !
of twilight, My times be in Thy hand!
Never glad, confident morning again! Perfect the cup as planned !
Best tight on well, for we taught him, Let age approve of youth, and death strike gallantly, complete the same!
Aim at our heart ere we pierce through Then let him receive the new knowledge
and wait us, THE LOST LEADER.
Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the
throne! Just for a handful of silver he left us;
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, Found the one gift of which fortune be HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Lost all the others she lets us devote.
(U. S. A.) They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. So much was theirs who solittle allowed. How all our copper had gone for his ser- LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear vice!
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, Rags - were they purple, his heart | On the eighteenth of April, in Seventyhad been proud!
five; We that had loved him so, followed him, Hardly a man is now alive honored him,
Who remembers that famous day and year. Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his He said to his friend, “If the Eritish clear accents,
march Made him our pattern to live and to By land or sea from the town to-night, die!
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, of the North Church tower as a signal Burns, Shelley, were with us, - they light, watch from their graves !
One, if by land, and two, if by sea; He alone breaks from the van and the And I on the opposite shore will be, freemen;
Ready to ride and spread the alarm He alone sinks to the rear and the Throngh every Middlesex village and slaves!
farm, We shall march prospering, -- not through For the country folk to be up and to his presence;
arm." Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre;
Then he said, "Good night!" and with Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his muffled oar quiescence,
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Still bidding, crouch whom the rest Just as the moon rose over the bay, lade aspire.
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay Blot out his name, then, — record one The Somerset, British man-of-war; lost soul more,
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar One task more declined, one more foot- Across the moon like a prison bar, path untrod,
And a huge black hulk, that was magni. One more triumph for devils, and sor fied row for angels,
By its own reflection in the tide. One wrong more to man, one more in. sult to God!
Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and Life's night begins; let him never come street, back to us!
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and Then he climbed the tower of the Old
fleet: North Church,
That was all! And yet, through the By the woolen stairs, with stealthy tread,
gloom and the light, To the belfrv-chamber overheail,
The fate of a nation was riding that night; And startled the pigeons from their perch And the spark struck out by that steed, On the sombre rafters, that round him
in his flight, made
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. Masses and moving shapes of shade, By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, He has left the village and mounted the To the highest window in the wall,
steep, Where he paused to listen and look down And beneath him, tranquil and broad and A moment on the roofs of the town,
deep, And the moonlight flowing over all.
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its exige, Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the
ledge, In their night-encampment on the hill,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread, It was twelve by the village clock The watchful night-wind, as it went
When he crossed the bridge into Medford Creeping along from tent to tent,
And the barking of the farmer's dog, dread
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank
and bare, Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride As if they already stood aghast On the opposite shore walked Paul Re. At the bloodywork they would look upon. Now he patted his horse's side,
It was two by the village clock Now gazed at the landscape far and near, When he came to the bridge in Concord Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle. He heard the bleating of the flock, girth;
And the twitter of birds among the trees, But mostly he watched with eager search And felt the breath of the morning breeze The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, Blowing over the meadows brown. As it rose above the graves on the hill, And one was safe and asleep in his heel Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. Who at the bridge would be first to fall, And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height Who that day would be lying dead, A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! Pierced by a British musket-ball. He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
You know the rest. In the books you But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight have read, A second lamp in the belfry burns ! How the British Regulars fired and fled, –