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Be wakeful, be vigilant, —

Danger may be
At an hour when all secmeth

Securest to thee.

How! gains the leak so fast?

Clear out the hold, -
Hoist up thy merchandise,

Heave out thy gold; —
There, let the ingots go; —

Now the ship rights;
Hurra! the harbor 's near, —

Lo! the red lights.

Slacken not sail yet

At inlet or island;
Straight for the beacon steer,

Straight for the high land;
Crowd all thy carvass on,

Cut through the foam; —
Christian! cast anchor now,

Heaven is thy home!

THE TWO ESTATES. – Mary Howitt. The children of the rich man, no carking care they

know; Like lilies in the sunshine, how beautiful they grow! And well may they be beautiful ; in raiment of the best, In velvet, gold, and ermine, their little forms are drest. With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their head, And golden hair, like angels' locks, over their shoul.

ders spread.

And well may they be beautiful; they toil not, neither

spin, Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they aught their daily bread

to win. They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth can

buy ; They sleep on beds of softest down, in chambers rich

and high. They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round about, And servants do attend them if they go in or out. They have music for the hearing, and pictures for the

eye, And exquisite and costly things each sense to grat

ify. No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chance to

die, Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel-vault, they With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all may

know The children of the rich man are mouldering below.


The children of the poor man, around the humble

doors They throng of city alleys and solitary moors. In hot and noisy factories they turn the ceaseless

wheel, And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless

meal. They rise up in the morning, ne'er dreaming of delight, And weary, spent, and heartsore, they go to bed at


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They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and

gem; So their clothes keep out the weather, they 're good

enough for them. Their hands are broad and horny; they hunger and

are cold; They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are

five years old. The poor man's child must step aside if the rich man's

child go by ; And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity.

And of what could he be vain? — his most beautiful

array Is what the rich man's children have worn and cast

away. The finely-spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for

him, He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in garments

He musted and diven of the vistheirs

He sees the children of the rich in chariots gay go by, And,“ What a heavenly life is theirs !” he sayeth with

a sigh.

Then straightway to his work he goeth, for, feeble

though he be, His daily toil must still be done to help the family. Thus live the poor man's children; and if they chance

to die, In plain, uncostly coffins, 'mong common graves, they

lie; Nor monument nor headstone their humble names

declare; But thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man's chil

dren there!


Child of the country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair ;
Born, like the lily, where the dew
Lies odorous when the day is new;
Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee;
Nursed to sweet music on the knee;
Lulled in the breast to that glad tune
Which winds make 'mong the woods of June;
I sing of thee; - 't is sweet to sing
Of such a fair and gladsome thing.

Child of the town! for thee I sigh ;
A gilded roof 's thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,
A narrow street thy boundless road,
Thy rushing deer 's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen, thy best light 's a lamp, -
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines;
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so farr?

Child of the country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet;
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April, while she nursed her young ;
The den beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins, the timorous hare;
The knoll, wrought o'er with wild blue-bells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells;
The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool.


The shilfa's nest, that seems to be
A portion of the sheltering tree, —
And other marvels, which my verse
Can find no language to rehearse.

Child of the town! for thee, alas!
Glad nature spreads nor flowers nor grass;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun
Glad streams come singing as they run;
A May-pole is thy blossomed tree,
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
Thy poulterer dwells, beside thy hare;
Thy fruit is plucked, and by the pound
Hawked clamorous all the city round;
No roses, twin-born on the stalk,
Perfume thee in thy evening walk;
No voice of birds, — but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,
And startling cries, such as are rife
When wine and wassail waken strife.

Child of the country! on the lawn I see thee like the bounding fawn, Blithe as the bird which tries its wing The first time on the winds of spring; Bright as the sun when from the cloud He comes as cocks are crowing loud ; Now running, shouting, ʼmid sunbeams, Now groping trouts in lucid streams, Now spinning like a mill-wheel round, Now hunting echo's empty sound, Now climbing up some old, tall tree, For climbing's sake. T is sweet to the To sit where birds can sit alone, Or share with thee thy venturous throne.

Child of the town and bustling street, What woes and snares await thy feet!

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