NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.

Go on! go on! no guerdon seek

For thy reward;

But while heroic, be thou meek,

And from thy heart, and from thy cheek,
Be pride debarred :

Go on!

Go on! go on! thy Master's ear

And constant eye

Observe each groan-each struggling tear:
He, 'midst the shadows dark and drear,
Is standing by-

Go on!

155

J. BAXTER LANGLEY,

XXVI. NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.

WE are most of us apt to murmur, when we see exorbitant fortunes placed in the hands of single persons; larger we are sure, than they can want, or, as we think, than they can use. This is so common a reflection, that I will not say it is not natural. But whenever the complaint comes into our minds we ought to recollect that the thing happens in consequence of those very rules and laws which secure to ourselves our property be it ever so small. The laws which accidentally cast enormous estates into one great man's possession, are, after all, the self same laws which protect and guard the poor man. Fixed rules of property are established for one as well as another, without knowing beforehand whom they may affect. If these rules sometimes throw an excessive or disproportionate share to one man's lot, who can help it? It is much better that it should be so, than that the rules themselves should be broken up: and you can only have one side of the alternative or the other. To abolish riches would not be to abolish property: but, on the contrary to leave it without protection or resource. It is not for the poor man to repine at the effects of laws and rules, by which he himself is benefited every hour of his existence

which secure to him his earnings, his habitation, his bread, his life; without which he, no more than the rich man could either eat his meals in quietness, or go to bed in safety. Of the two, it is rather more the concern of the poor to stand up for the laws, than of the rich; for it is the law which defends the weak against the strong, the humble against the powerful, the little against the great; and weak and strong, humble and powerful, little and great, there would be even were there no laws whatever. Besides, what, after all, is the mischief? The owner of a great estate does not eat or drink more than the owner of a small one. His fields do not produce worse crops, nor does the produce maintain fewer mouths. If estates were more equally divided, would greater numbers be fed, or clothed, or employed? Either therefore, large fortunes are not a public evil, or if they be in any degree an evil, it is to be borne with for the sake of those fixed and general rules concerning poverty, in the preservation and steadiness of which all are interested.-Paley.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,

And strike the sounding blow,

Where from the burning iron's breast
The sparks fly to and fro,

While answering to the hammer's ring,
And fire's intenser glow-

Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plough,
Who bend beneath the summer sun,
With burning cheek and brow-
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
From olden time till now-
But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
And labour all day through,

Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who plough the sea's blue field,
Who ride the restless wave,

Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel
There lies a yawning grave,
Around whose bark the wintry winds

Like fiends of fury rave-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
And labour long hours through,

Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

LABOUR.

Ho! ye upon whose fever'd cheeks
The hectic glow is bright,

Whose mental toil wears out the day
And half the weary night,
Who labour for the souls of men,
Champions of truth and right-
Although ye feel your toil is hard,
Even with this glorious view,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! all who labour, all who strive,
Ye wield a lofty power;

Do with your might, do with your strength,
Fill every golden hour!

The glorious privilege to do,

Is man's most noble dower.

Oh! to your birthright and yourselves,
To your own souls be true!

A weary, wretched life is theirs,

Who have no work to do.

157

C. F. ORNE.

XXVII. LABOUR.

"Two men I honour and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man's. Venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse; wherein notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living man-like. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! Hardly entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed: thou wert our conscript on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee too lay a God-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour; and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on: thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, daily bread."

"A second man I honour, and still more highly, him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable-not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavouring towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low? Highest of all when his outward and his inward endeavour are one: when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with

heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us! If the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return that he have light, have guidance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I honour: all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth."- Carlyle.

HEART of the people! working men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming time this world of ours;
Hold by that title which proclaims

That ye are undismayed and strong,

Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.

Yet not on ye alone depend
The offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end

Is lord and master of us all.

The high-born youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound;

While industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.

With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now;
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle at the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use
Of warm repose and careless joy,
When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives as active to destroy.

But who is this with wasted frame?
Sad sign of vigour overwrought-
What toil can this new victim claim?
Pleasure for pleasure's sake besought,
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do!

And he who still and silent sits
In closed room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arms or open book :—

MY OWN AGE.

To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that hope has ne'er defined

'Till from his busy thoughts they flow.

Thus all must work with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed,-
And all our choice is this, to grow
Pasture and grain, or noisome weed.

Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,-
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest,
And an increase of food for man.

159

R. M. MILNES.

XXVIII. MY OWN AGE!

He is These roses

"MAN is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say 'I think,' 'I am,' but quotes some saint or sage. ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. There is no time to it. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with riveted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tip-toe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time."-R. W. Emerson. My own age! my own age!

They say that thou art cold,

That faith and love less brightly burn
Than in the days of old.