The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; | I hold it true, whate'er befall— So calm are we when passions are no more. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Lets in new light through chinks that time Stronger by weakness, wiser men become view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. EDMUND WALLER. FROM "IN MEMORIAM." I. I HELD it truth, with him who sings And find in loss a gain to match? Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd, I feel it, when I sorrow most— LIV. Oh yet we trust that somehow good To pangs of nature, sins of will, That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not a worm is cloven in vain; That not a moth with vain desire I can but trust that good shall fall So runs my dream: but what am I? LXXVIII. Again at Christmas did we weave The holly round the Christmas hearth; Again our ancient games had place, No single tear, no mark of pain: No-mixt with all this mystic frame, CVI. Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: Ring out the grief that saps the mind, Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out; ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. CXIV. Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail She sets her forward countenance She cannot fight the fear of death. Of Demons? fiery hot to burst A higher hand must make her mild, For she is earthly of the mind, But Wisdom heavenly of the soul. I would the great world grew like thee, CXVIII. Contemplate all this work of Time, But trust that those we call the dead And grew to seeming-random forms, Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime, The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die. ALFRED TENNYSON. POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS. LABORARE EST ORARE. Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, PAUSE not to dream of the future before us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing; Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring: ing, us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman great heart. reaping, From the dark cloud flows the life-giving How through his veins goes the life-curshower; rent leaping! From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride ing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower; sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides! Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his Labor is wealth,-in the sea the pearl part. Labor is life!-'Tis the still water fail- Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens; ens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune! groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest blow eth; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee: Rest not content in thy darkness,-a clod! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD. THE USEFUL PLOUGH. A COUNTRY life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair! In every field of wheat, Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves, Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves; Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train Slants the long track that scores the level plain, Through the moist valley, clogg'd with oozing clay, The patient convoy breaks its destined way; At every turn the loosening chains resound, The fairest of flowers, adorning the The swinging ploughshare circles glisten bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plough. They rise with the morning lark, Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep; While every pleasant park ing round, Till the wide field one billowy waste ap pears, And wearied hands unbind the panting steers. These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; Next morning is ringing with birds that This is the page whose letters shall be seen are singing On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment Changed by the sun to words of living green; This is the scholar whose immortal pen Their days are spent, whose minds are Spells the first lesson hunger taught to The lord of earth, the hero of the plough! We stain thy flowers,-they blossom o'er Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted | Week in, week out, from morn till night, Bow'd their strong manhood to the hum- Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing ble plough, Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, The same stern iron in the same right hand, Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run; The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 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 brow is wet with honest sweat; Onward through life he goes: Each morning sees some task begin, Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat nowThe bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though, on the forge's brow, The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, |