ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. "I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky; I've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by; I've been laughing at work while others sigh; Let those laugh who win!" Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? "I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells; I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells; I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells; Is that worth pursuing?" TWO MOODS. I PLUCKED the harebells as I went 337 Singing along the river-side; The curlews called along the shore; Perhaps, to-day, some other one, ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed "I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going? "To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows, Be it a thistle or be it a rose, — A secret worth the knowing!" Each content with the work to be done, Wind and rain fulfilling His word! Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred? I toiled alone: My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone; I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street, And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet. I said, "O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker too, The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how is it with you? For while I toil great tears of joy will sometimes fill my eyes, And when I form my perfect work it lives and never dies. "I carve the marble of pure thought until the thought takes form, Until it gleams before my soul and makes the world grow warm; Until there comes the glorious voice and words that seem divine, And the music reaches all men's hearts and draws them into mine. "And yet for days it seems my heart shall | That while they nobly held it as each Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray, A great thought rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain, The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again. "The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, — A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man. "I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men, The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen, The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap, And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. man can do and bear, It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there. Woe, woe! STRIKE the loved harp; let the prelude That strength and virtue thus should pass From men below! That so divine, so beautiful a Maid Should in the withering dust be laid, As one that- Hush! who dares with impious breath To speak of death? The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth. We know she only sleepeth; And from the dust, At the end of her correction, Truth hath decreed her joyous resurrec- | There are who for thy last, long sleep. tion: She shall arise, she must. For can it be that wickedness hath power And yet that vice Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, Sad thrift of love! the loving breast Should be allowed on sacred ground to Gave up the weary head to rest, plant But kept the aching for its own. FREDERICK TENNYSON. 341 And through gray clouds give laws unto | A little while-and lo! the charm is the realm, heard; A youth, whose life has been all summer, steals Forth from the noisy guests around the board, Creeps by her softly; at her footstool kneels ; And, when she pauses, murmurs tender Into her fond ear-while the Blackbird things sings. The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl up higher, And dizzy things of eve begin to float Upon the light; the breeze begins to tire. Half-way to sunset with a drowsy note The ancient clock from out the valley swings; The grandam nods-and still the Blackbird sings. Far shouts and laughter from the farmstead peal, Where the great stack is piling in the |