UNIV. OF

Foems. ·For Memorizing

I know it is a sin

For me to sit and grin

At him here;

But the old three-cornered hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,

Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

RING OUT, WILD BELLS.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying clouds, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die!
Ring out the Old, ring in the New;
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going-let him go;

Ring out the False, ring in the True!

For Memorizing

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind!

Ring out the slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife,
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws!

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller Minstrel in!

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of Good!

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrow lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace!

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land-
Ring in the Christ that is to be!

-Alfred Tennyson.

For Memorizing

Soldier, rest!

SOLDIER, REST!

Thy warfare o'er,

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

Dream of battled fields no more,

Days of danger, nights of waking.

In our isle's enchanted hall,

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing;

Fairy strains of music fall,

Every sense in slumber dewing.

Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armor's clang, or war-steed champing;
Trump nor pibroch summon here

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.

Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,
At the daybreak, from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.

Ruder sounds shall none be near;

Guards nor warders challenge here;

Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

-Sir Walter Scott.

For Memorizing

A SONG.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings always:

There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.

The sunshine showers across the grain,

And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,

There is ever a song that our hearts may hear-
There is a song somewhere, my dear-

There is ever a song somewhere!

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,

In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:

The robin pipes when the sun is here,

And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.

The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.