« 上一页继续 »
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys ;
He hears his daughter's voice
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise !
How in the grave she lies ;
A tear out of his eyes.
Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought !
Longfellow. 1 Like the tan, brown. Tan is the inner 2 Sledge, a large hammer.
bark of the oak, used in tanning.
And, when I crossed the wild,
The solitary child.
She dwelt on a wide moor-
Beside a cottage door.
green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
You to the town must go ;
Your mother through the snow.' • That, father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon !'
And snapped a fagot-band;
The lantern in her hand,
Not blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time;
She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ;
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood,
That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.
They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,
'In heaven we all shall meet!' When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet,
Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small ; And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed
The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank ;
And further there were none !
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
NAVAL OD E1
Your glorious standard launch again,
The spirits of your fathers