Arouse thee, Soul!

O! there is much to do

For thee if thou wouldst work for human kind→ The misty Future through,

A greatness looms-'tis mind, awakened mind!
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!

Shake off thy sluggishness,

As shakes the lark the dew-drop from its wing;
Make but one error less,-

One truth-thine offering to mind's altar bring!
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!

Be what thou surely art,

An emanation from the Deity,

A flutter of that heart,

Which fills all nature, sea and earth and sky.

Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!

And let the body do

Some worthy deed for human happiness

To join, when life is through;

Unto thy name, that angels both may bless!

Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!

Leave nothings of the earth ;

And if the body be not strong, to dare

To blessed thoughts give birth,

High as yon Heaven, pure as Heaven's air,
Arouse thee, Soul!

Arouse thee, Soul!

Or sleep for evermore,

And be what all nonentities have been

Crawl on till life is o'er :

If to be ought but this thou e'er dost mean,

Arouse thee, Soul!

NICOLL

THE SHOEMAKER.

XXXIX. THE SHOEMAKER.

171

As every one will need something that another makes, every one who is thus employed in supplying society with the fruit of his labour, is doing daily good, and is really exercising a philanthropic employment. Every artisan performs an act of benevolence in everything he frames. His own interest may be his impulse and object, but he is conferring benefit on some one by everything he produces. His workmanship will give comfort and pleasure to others, whether he means it or not. If others did not make my shoes, and hat, and coat, and stockings, I must live in the pain or discomfort of being without them. I am, therefore, obliged by the poorest man whose hands have formed what I derive such hourly advantage from."

Turner's Sacred History.

THE shoemaker sat among wax and leather,
With the lapstone on his knee,

Where, snug in his shop, he defied all weather,
Drawing his quarters and sole together:
A happy old man was he.

The happy old man was so wise and knowing,
The worth of his time he knew;

He bristled his ends and he kept them going,
And felt to each moment a stitch was owing,
Until he got round the shoe.

Of every deed that his wax was sealing,
The closing was firm and fast,

The prick of his awl never caused a feeling
Of pain to the toe; and his skill in heeling
Was perfect, and true to the last.
Whenever you gave him a boot to measure,
With gentle and skilful hand

He took its proportions with looks of pleasure,
As if you were giving the costliest treasure,
Or dubbing him lord of the land.

And many a one did he save from getting
A fever, or cold, or cough;

For many a foot did he save from wetting,
When, whether in water or snow 'twas setting,
His shoeing would keep them off.

When he had done with his making and mending,
With hope and peaceful breast,

Resigning his awl, as his thread was ending,
He passed from his bench to the grave descending,
As high as the king, to rest.

HANNAH F. GOULD.

XL. ODE TO DUTY.

"THE great prop of society (which upholdeth the safety, peace, and welfare thereof, in observing laws, dispensing justice, discharging trusts, keeping contracts, and holding good correspondence mutually) is conscience, or a sense of duty towards God, obliging to perform what is right and equal; quickened by hope of rewards, and fear of punishment from him: secluding which principle, no worldly consideration is strong enough to hold men fast; or can farther dispose many to do right, or observe faith, or hold peace, than appetite, or humour (things very slippery and uncertain) do sway them."-Barrow. "Of law there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world. All things in heaven and earth do her homage; the very least as feeling her care, and the greatest as not exempted from her power. Both angels and men, and creatures of what condition soever, though each in different sort and manner, yet all with uniform consent, admiring her as the mother of their peace and joy."-Hooker.

STERN daughter of the voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love,
Who art a light to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe,

From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth,

Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth;

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot;

Who do thy work and know it not;

Long may the kindly impulse last!

But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast.

Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold,

Even now, who, not unwisely bold,

Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet find that other strength, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried,

No sport of every random gust,

Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust;

THE IRON-FOUNDERS.

And oft when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face;
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;

173

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh
and strong.

To humble functions, awful Power!
I call thee; I myself commend
Unto thy guidance, from this hour;
O let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly-wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;

And in the light of truth thy bondmau let me live.

WORDSWORTH.

XLI. THE IRON-FOUNDERS.

"IT is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away. Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labourfield; of thy hard hand, scarred with service more honourable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which mother Nature has embroidered, midst sun and rain, midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honours? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to Nature, it is impiety to heaven, it is breaking heaven's great ordinance. Toil, I repeat-toil, either of the brain, of the heart, or of the hand-is the only true manhood, the only true nobility."-Dewey.

'Tis a fearful sight, on a winter's night,
When the wind on the moors is high,
And here and there the furnace-glare
Is ruddy across the sky:

And horribly bright from its funnel's height
A sheet of flame is cast;

And far below is the livid glow

Of the iron melting fast.

A weary watch while others sleep,

A weary watch have we;

When the frost is sharp and the night is deep,

And as lone as lone can be:

And the blast that nothing can weary,

To the wind that roars again;

roars

You might keep alive, with the air it pours,
Two hundred thousand men.

And hour by hour, as the distant stroke
Of the old church-clock we hear,

We feed the furnace with lime and coke,
Whereon he makes good cheer:
And hour by hour, in his red, red sides,
He melts the ore away;

And the liquid stream of metal glides
From the hearth to its bed of clay.

And this is the way that our hours decay,
And these are the toils that wear;
For our children's sake our rest we break,
From youth to the hoary hair:

The very iron we fashion out,

Of turmoil tells its tale;

The cannon that roars in the battle-shout,
The anchor, and the rail.

We murmur not that the words were said

To all of mortal frame,

In the sweat of our brow we must needs cat bread

Till we turn from whence we came :

But when clouds fly off, and tempests cease,

And skies are calm and clear,

We cannot but long for the Land of Peace,

And the quiet we knew not here.

NEALE.