Now joy, old England raise! While the wine-cup shines in light- By thy wild and stormy steep, Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave! The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls Dark in colour, robed with everlasting mourning, for ever tottering like a great fortress shaken by war, fearful as much in their weakness as in their strength, and yet gathered after every fall into darker frowns and unhumiliated threatening; for ever incapable of comfort or healing from herb or flower, nourishing no root in their crevices, touched by no hue of life on buttress or ledge, but to the utmost desolate; knowing no shaking of leaves in the wind nor of grass beside the stream-no other motion but their own mortal shivering, the dreadful crumbling of atom from atom in their corrupting stones; knowing no sound of living voice or living tread, cheered neither by the kid's bleat nor the marmot's cry; haunted only by uninterrupted echoes from afar off, wandering hither and thither among their walls, unable to escape, and by the hiss of angry torrents, and sometimes the shriek of a bird that flits near their face, and sweeps frightened back from under their shadow into the gulf of air. And sometimes, when the echo has. fainted, and the wind has carried the sound of the torrent away, and the bird has vanished, and the mouldering stones are still for a little time-a brown moth, opening and shutting its wings upon a grain of dust, may be the only thing that moves or feels in all the waste of weary precipice, darkening five thousand feet of the blue depth of heaven. RUSKIN. HOME AND CLASS WORK. Learn the spellings and meanings at the top of the page; and write sentences containing these words. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in AlgiersThere was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent with pitying glances to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered as he took his comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land: Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen-on-the-Rhine.' "Tell " my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline; And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen-on-theRhine." "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but I kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine On the cottage wall at Bingen-calm Bingen-on-theRhine." "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly with a calm and steadfast eye For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die. And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine) For the honour of old Bingen-dear Bingen-on-the Rhine." |