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thine own,

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

clay,

Thou, to whom fools propound,
And Good and Infinite
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand When the wine makes its round,

“Since life fleets, all is change; the Past With knowledge absolute,

gone, seize to-day!"
Subject to no dispute
From fools that crowded youth, nor let Fool! All that is, at all,
thee feel alone.

Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God

stand sure: Be there, for once and all,

What entered into thee,
Severed great minds from small,
Announced to each his station in the That was, is, and shall be:

Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter
Past!
Was I, the world arraigned,

and clay endure.
Were they, my soul disclained,
Right? Let age speak the truth and He fixed thee mid this dance
give us peace at last !

Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain

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.

207

his own;

reft us,

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,
The muster of men at the barrack door, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, dark,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers, And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass.
Marching down to their boats on the shore. ing, a spark

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,

town.
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!" He heard the crowing of the cock,
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret And felt the damp of the river fog,

And the barking of the farmer's dog, dread

That rises after the sun goes down.
Of the lonely belfry and the dead ;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,

It was one by the village clock,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,-

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, –

vere.

town.

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