_V_. Friends, since there is a place where you must hear When I stand up to speak, I would not now If there were any other found to bid You welcome. Welcome, then; these with me ask No better than to please, and in good sooth I ever find you willing to be pleased. When I demand not more, but when we fain Would lead you to some knowledge fresh, and ask Your careful heed, I hear that some of you Have said, 'What good to know, what good to us? He puts us all to school, and our school days Should be at end. Nay, if they needs must teach, Then let them teach us what shall mend our lot; The laws are strict on us, the world is hard.' You friends and neighbours, may I dare to speak? I know the laws are strict, and the world hard, For ever will the world help that man up That is already coming up, and still And ever help him down that's going down. Yet say, 'I will take the words out of thy mouth, O world, being yet more strict with mine own life. Thou law, to gaze shall not be worth thy while On whom beyond thy power doth rule himself.' Yet seek to know, for whoso seek to know They seek to rise, and best they mend their lot. Methinks, if Adam and Eve in their garden days Had scorned the serpent, and obediently Continued God's good children, He Himself Had led them to the Tree of Knowledge soon And bid them eat the fruit thereof, and yet Not find it apples of death. _Vicar's wife (aside)._ Now, dearest John, We're ready. Lucky too! you always go Above the people's heads. _Young farmer stands forward. Vicar presenting him._ SONG. I. Sparkle of snow and of frost, Blythe air and the joy of cold, Their grace and good they have lost, As print o' her foot by the fold. Let me back to yon desert sand, Rose-lipped love--from the fold, Flower-fair girl--from the fold, Let me back to the sultry land. The world is empty of cheer, Forlorn, forlorn, and forlorn, As the night-owl's sob of fear, As Memnon moaning at morn. For love of thee, my dear, I have lived a better man, O my Mary Anne, My Mary Anne. II. Away, away, and away, To an old palm-land of tombs, Washed clear of our yesterday And where never a snowdrop blooms, Nor wild becks talk as they go Of tender hope we had known, Nor mosses of memory grow All over the wayside stone. III. Farewell, farewell, and farewell, As voice of a lover's sigh In the wind let yon willow wave 'Farewell, farewell, and farewell.' The sparkling frost-stars brave On thy shrouded bosom lie; Thou art gone apart to dwell, But I fain would have said good-bye. For love of thee in thy grave I have lived a better man, O my Mary Anne, My Mary Anne. _Mrs. Thorpe (aside)._ O hearts! why, what a song! To think on it, and he a married man!