Where Potomac's stream is flowing
Virginia's border through,
Where the white-sailed ships are going
Sailing to the ocean blue;
Hushed the sound of mirth and singing,
Silent every one!
While the solemn bells are ringing
By the tomb of Washington.
Tolling and knelling,
With a sad, sweet sound,
O'er the waves the tones are swelling
By Mount Vernon's sacred ground.
Long ago the warrior slumbered—
Our country's father slept;
Long among the angels numbered
They the hero soul have kept.
But the children's children love him,
And his name revere,
So where willows wave above him,
Sweetly still his knell you hear.
Sail, oh ships, across the billows,
And bear the story far;
How he sleeps beneath the willows,—
"First in peace and first in war,"
Tell while sweet adieus are swelling,
Till you come again,
He within the hearts is dwelling,
Of his loving countrymen.
M.B.C. Slade.

Gradatim

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round,
I count this thing to be grandly true:
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting a soul from the common sod
To a purer air and a broader view.
We rise by things that are under our feet;
By what we have mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.
We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
When the morning calls us to life and light;
But our hearts grow weary, and ere he night
Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.
We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings,
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.
Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart, and the vision falls,
And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to the summit round by round.
J.G. Holland.

Mr. Finney's Turnip

Mr. Finney had a turnip
And it grew behind the barn;
It grew there, and it grew there,
And the turnip did no harm,
It grew and it grew,
Till it could get no taller;
Mr. Finney pulled it up
And put it in his cellar.
It lay there and it lay there,
Till it began to rot;
His daughter Sallie took it up,
And put it in the pot.
She boiled it, and she boiled it,
As long as she was able;
His daughter Peggy fished it out.
And put it on the table.
Mr. Finney and his wife.
They sat down to sup,
And they ate, and they ate,
Until they ate the turnip up.

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 a 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.
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 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.
H. W. Longfellow.