The Wreck of the Hesperus 121 SHEPHERD BOY'S SONG. E that is down needs fear no fall; H He that is low no pride; He that is humble ever shall I am content with what I have, And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Fulness to such a burden is, Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age. John Bunyan. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. T was the schooner Hesperus, I "That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, And watched how the veering flaw did blow Then up and spake an old sailor, "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, Down came the storm, and smote amain She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.' He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. The Wreck of the Hesperus 123 "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be?" ""Tis a fog-bell, on a rock-bound coast!" "O father! I hear the sound of guns, "O father! I see a gleaming light, But the father answered never a word, Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between It was the sound of the trampling surf, The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, H. W. Longfellow. The Burial of Sir John Moore 125 NOT THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. TOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, |