For Memorizing

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:

The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate,
In the good time coming.
They shall use, and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger:
The reformation has begun;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys.

A good time coming:

Let us aid it all we can

Every woman, every man

The good time coming.

Smallest helps, if rightly given,

Make the impulse stronger;

"Twill be strong enough one day;

Wait a little longer.

-Chas. Mackay.

THE BROOK AND THE WAVE.

The brooklet came from the mountain,
As sang the bard of old,
Running with feet of silver
Over the sands of gold!

For Memorizing

Far away in the briny ocean

There rolled a turbulent wave,
Now singing along the sea-beach,
Now howling along the cave.

And the brooklet has found the billow,

Though they flowed so far apart,

And has filled with its freshness and sweetness
That turbulent, bitter heart!

-Longfellow.

FIFTH GRADE.

LOVE OF COUNTRY.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land?
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentered all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

-Walter Scott.

For Memorizing

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,

Like the sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

For Memorizing

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
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 has 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.