Pocahontas 221 POCAHONTAS. ́EARIED arm and broken sword WWage in vain the desperate fight: Round him press a countless horde, Through the wilderness resounds, Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light; Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire! Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien and proud, And his breast is bared to die. Who will shield the fearless heart? Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted axe and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life! In the wood of Powhattan, William Makepeace Thackeray. TO DAFFODILS. FAIR AIR Daffodils, we weep to see Until the hasting day But to the evensong; We have short time to stay as you, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick. ATHER ye rosebuds as ye may, And this same flower that smiles to-day The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun. The sooner will his race be run, The age is best which is the first, Then be not coy, but use your time, Robert Herrick. T THE WAR HORSE. HE fiery courser, when he hears from far The sprightly trumpets and the shouts of war, Pricks up his ears, and trembling with delight, Shifts place, and paws, and hopes the promised fight. On his right shoulder his thick mane reclined, John Dryden (from Virgil.) L LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. EAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, The night is dark, and I am far from home- Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou I loved to choose and see my path; but now I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, So long Thy power hath blessed me, sure it still O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, The night is gone; till And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. John Henry Newman. My Life is like the Summer Rose 225 MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. life is like the summer rose, MY That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close, The sweetest dews of night are shed, My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray: Restless and soon to pass away! My life is like the prints which feet All trace will vanish from the sand; On that lone shore loud moans the sea- |