A Book for the Young by Sarah French
page 41 of 129 (31%)
page 41 of 129 (31%)
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Where the wild stream's eternal strife,
Wake the dark echoes into life, Where rudely o'er the rock it gushes, Lost in its everlasting foam; And swift the channeled water rushes, With ceaseless roar and endless storm; And rugged crags, dark, grey, and high, Hang fearful o'er the darkened sky; And o'er the dim and shadowy deep, Yawning, presents a deathful leap. The boy has gained that desperate brink, And not a moment will he think Of all the hopes, and joys, and fears That are entwined in his young years. The old man stretched his arms in air, And vainly warned him to forbear: Oh! stay, my child, in mercy stay, And mark the dread abyss beneath; Destruction wings thee on thy way, And leads thee to an awful death. He said no more, for on the air Rose the deep murmuring of despair; One shriek of agonizing woe Broke on his ear, and all was o'er; For midst the waves' eternal flow, The boy had sank to rise no more. When springing from the dizzy steep, |
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