“Hush! hush! repining heart! there’s One whose eye Esteems each honest thought and act and word Noble as poet’s songs or patriot’s sword. Be true to Him: He will not pass thee by. He may not ask thee ’mid His stars to shine, And yet He needeth thee; His work is thine.” HASTINGS. _October 14th, 1066._ I. October’s woods are bright and gay, a thousand colours vie To win the golden smiles the Sun sends gleaming thro’ the sky; And tho’ the flowers are dead and gone, one garden seems the earth, For, in God’s world, as one charm dies, another starts to birth. II. To every season is its own peculiar beauty given, In every age of mortal men we see the Hand of Heaven; And century to century utters a glorious speech, And peace to war, and war to peace, eternal lessons teach. III. O grand, old woods, your forest-sires were thus as bright and gay, Before the axe’s murderous voice had spoiled their sylvan play; When other axes smote our sires and laid them stiff and low, On Hastings’ unforgotten field, _eight hundred years ago_. IV. Eight hundred years ago, long years, before Jacques Cartier clomb The Royal Height, where now no more the red men fearless roam! Eight hundred years ago, long years before Columbus came From stately Spain to find the world that ought to bear his name! V. The Sussex woods were bright and red on that October morn; And Sussex soil was red with blood before the next was born; But from that red united clay another race did start On the great stage of destiny to act a noble part. VI. So God doth mould, as pleaseth Him, the nations of His choice; Now, in the battle-cry is heard His purifying voice; And now with Orphic strains of peace He draws to nationhood The scattered tribes that dwell apart by mountain, sea and wood. VII. He took the lonely, poet Celt and taught him Roman lore, Then from the wealds of Saxony He brought the sons of Thor; Next from his craggy home the Dane came riding o’er the sea, And last, came William with his bands of Norman chivalry. VIII. And now as our young nationhood is struggling into birth, God grant its infant pulse may beat with our fore-fathers’ worth! And as we gather into _one_, let us recall with pride That we are of the blood of those who fought where Harold died. OCTOBER, 1866. THE NAUGHTY BOY. (_From H. C. Andersen’s Tales._) A good old poet sat by his hearth, While the wind and rain were raging abroad; And he thought of the poor who roamed thro’ the earth Without a home or friend but God, While he was as snug as he could desire, Roasting his apples before the fire.