You build your nest in the lofty pine, But is your slumber more sweet than mine? But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?" TUBAL CAIN CHARLES MACKAY LD Tubal Cain was a man of might OLD In the days when the earth was young; And he lifted high his brawny hand Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork! Hurrah for the Spear and Sword; Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord!" To Tubal Cain came many a one, As he wrought by his roaring fire, And each one prayed for a strong steel blade, As the crown of his desire. And he made them weapons sharp and strong, Till they shouted loud for glee, And gave him gifts of pearls and gold And spoils of the forest free. And they sang,-"Hurrah for Tubal Cain, But a sudden change came o'er his heart, And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done. He saw that men, with rage Made war upon their kind; and hate, And the land was red with the blood they shed And he said, "Alas! That ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan The spear and the sword for men whose joy And for many a day old Tubal Cain And his hand forbore to smite the ore, But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made, As he fashioned the First Plowshare. And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship joined their hands. Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plowed the willing lands; Our stanch good friend is he. And for the Plowshare and the Plow To him our praise shall be. O THE BLIND BOY COLLEY CIBBER SAY, what is that thing called light, What are the blessings of the sight? You talk of wondrous things you see; My day and night myself I make, And could I always keep awake, With me 'twere always day. RIVER Bright you sparkle on your way, O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, Through the flowers and foliage glancing, Like a child at play. River! River! Swelling River! On you rush o'er rough and smoothLouder, faster, brawling, leaping Over rocks, by rose banks sweeping, Like impetuous youth. River! River! Brimming River! Broad and deep and still as Time; River! River! Rapid River! River! River! Headlong River! Like eternity. THE HEN THAT HATCHED DUCKS ONCE HARRIET BEECHER STOWE there was a nice young hen that we will call Mrs. Feathertop. She was a hen of most excellent family, being a direct descendant of the Bolton Grays, and as pretty a young fowl as you should wish to see in a summer's day. She was, moreover, as fortunately situated in life as it was possible for a hen to be. She was brought up by young Master Fred Little John, with four or five family connections of hers, and a lively young cock, who was held to be as brisk a scratcher and as capable a head of a family as any half-dozen sensible hens could desire. |