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War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
Never ending, still beginning,
If the world be worth thy winning,
Lovely Thais sits beside thee;
The many rend the skies with loud applause;
The prince, unable to conceal his pain,
Gazed on the fair, who caused his care,
Sighed and looked; and sighed again :
Now, strike the golden lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain :
Hark! hark the horrid sound
How they hiss in the air,
How they point to the Persian abodes,
And glittering temples of their hostile gods ! The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; And the king seizes a flambeau with zeal to destroy:
Thais led the way, to light him on bis prey ; And, like another Helen-fired another Troy.
Thus, long ago, ere heaving bellows learned to blow,
While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute and sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.
At last, divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame.
Enlarged the former narrow bounds,
And added length—to solemn sounds,
Or both-divide the crown;
She-drew an angel down.
THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.
(HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.)
Half-way up the stairs it stands.
By day its voice is low and light;
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
In that mansion used to be
“ Forever-never !
There groups of merry children played,
From that chamber, clothed in white,
And in the hush that followed the prayer,
All are scattered now and fled,
“ Forever-never !
Never here, forever there,
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
(LONGFELLOW.) Under a spreading chestnut tree,
The village smithy stands;
With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong, as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face-is like the tan;
He earns-whate'er he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week out, week in, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like chatl—from a threshing-floor.
And sits among his boys;
He hears his daughter's voice,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
How in the grave she lies;
A tear from out his eyes. Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing
Onward-through life he goes: Each morning-sees some task begin,
Each evening--sees it close; Something attempted--something done,
Has earned a night's repose. 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.