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OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

No, by these hills whose banners now displayed | No helpmates teach the docile steed his road
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed ; (Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad);
By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests But unassisted, through each toilsome day,
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests ; With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens, Draws his fresh parallels, and, widening still,
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines, – Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill.
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil Strong on the wing his busy followers play,
To crown with peace their own untainted soil ; Where writhing earthworms meet the unwelcome
And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind,

day,
If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind, Till all is changed, and hill and level down
These stately forms, that, bending even now, Assume a livery of sober brown ;
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough, Again disturbed when Giles with wearying strides
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides
The same stern iron in the same right hand, His heels deep sinking, every step he goes,
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run ; Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won ! Welcome, green headland ! firm beneath his feet:

Welcome, the friendly bank's refreshing seat;
There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse
Their sheltering canopy of pendent boughs ;

Till rest delicious chase each transient pain,
THE FARMER'S BOY,

And new-born vigor swell in every vein.

Hour after hour and day to day succeeds, WHERE noble Grafton spreads his rich domains, Till every clod and deep-drawn furrow spreads Round Euston's watered vale and sloping plains, To crumbling mould, — a level surface clear, Where woods and groves in solemn grandeur rise, And strewed with corn to crown the rising vear; Where the kite brooding unmolested flies, And o'er the whole Giles, once transverse again, The woodcock and the painted pheasant race, In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain. And skulking foxes, destined for the chase ; The work is done ; no more to man is given ; There Giles, untaught and unrepining, strayed The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven. Through every copse and grove and winding glade ;

His simple errand done, he homeward hies; There his first thoughts to Nature's charms in- Another instantly his place supplies. clined,

The clattering dairy-maid immersed in steam, That stamps devotion on the inquiring mind. Singing and scrubbing midst her milk and cream, A little farm his generous master tilled, Bawls out, “Go fetch the cows !” — he hears no Who with peculiar grace his station filled ;

more; By deeds of hospitality endeared,

For pigs and ducks and turkeys throng the Served from affection, for his worth revered.

door, A happy offspring blest his plenteous board, And sitting hens for constant war prepared, His fields were fruitful, and his barns wel) stored, A concert strange to that which late he heard. And fourscore ewes he fed, a sturdy team, Straight to the meadow then he whistling goes; And lowing kine that grazed beside the stream ; With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows ; Unceasing industry he kept in view,

Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze, And never lacked a job for Giles to do.

Or hear the summons with an idle gaze ;

For well they know the cow-yard yields no more Fled now the sullen murmurs of the north, Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store. The splendid raiment of the Spring peeps forth ; Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow, Her universal green and the clear sky

The right of conquest all the law they know; Delight still more and more the gazing eye. The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed, Wide o'er the fields, in rising moisture strong, And one superior always takes the lead, Shoots up the simple flower, or creeps along Is ever foremost wheresoe'er they stray, The mellowed soil, imbibing fairer hues, Allowed precedence, undisputed sway; Orsweets from frequent showers and evening dews; With jealous pride her station is maintained, That summon from their sheds the slumbering For many a broil that post of honor gained. ploughs,

At home, the yard affords a grateful scene, While health impregnates every breeze that blows. For spring makes e'en a miry cow-yard clean. No wheels support the diving, pointed share ; Thence from its chalky bed behold conveyed No groaning ox is doomed to labor there ; The rich manure that drenching winter made,

Which, piled near home, grows green with many | Clang, clang ! — again, my mates, what grows a weed,

Beneath the hammer's potent blows ?
A promised nutriment for autumn's seed. Clink, clank ! we forge the giant chain,
Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles; Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
The mistress too, and followed close by Giles. Midst storiny winds and adverse tides;
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat, Secured by this, the good ship braves
With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray which thunder on her sides.
Begins the work, begins the simple lay ;
The full-charged udder yields its willing stream Anxious no more, the merchant sees
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream ; The mist drive dark before the breeze,
And crouching Giles beneath a neighboring tree The storm-cloud on the hill ;
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee ; Calmly he rests, – though far away,
Whose hat with battered brim, of nap so bare, In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, -
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, -- Reliant on our skill.
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade.

Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid

Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; By Afric's pestilential shore ;
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store, By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ;
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door.

By many a balmy western isle,
Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam, Basking in spring's perpetual smile ;
Till eve again recall them loaded home.

By stormy Labrador.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

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road ;

ANONYMOUS.

Still, still, whene'er the battle word For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, Is liberty, when men do stand

And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous For justice and their native land, Then Heaven bless the sword !

The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean

poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast

by the board ;

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

stove at the chains,

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a white heat now :

remains, The billows ceased, the flames decreased ; though

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when

ye pitch sky-high, on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the Then moves his head, as though he said, “Fear sable mound;

nothing, — here am I !" And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand ranking round,

keep time, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands Your blows make music sweeter far than any only bare;

steeple's chime ! Some rest upon their sledges here, some work But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let

the burden be, the windlass there.

The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal crafts

men we ; The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull mound heaves below,

their rustling red ! And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work every throe;

will soon be sped ; It rises, roars, rends all outright, O Vulcan, Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery

what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy high sun shines not so !

couch of clay; The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry fearful show,

craftsmen here, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and ruddy, lurid row

the sighing seaman's cheer ; Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men when, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far before the foe;

from love and home, As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the sailing monster slow

ocean foam. Sinks on the anvil, - all about the faces fiery grow,

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down “Hurrah !" they shout, “leap out, leap out”:

at last. bang, bang, the sledges go ; Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high

A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat

was cast. and low ;

A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou haust A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash

life like me, ing blow ;

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling

the deep green sea ! cinders strew

O deep sea-lliver, who might then behold such The ground around ; at every bound the swelter

sights as thou ? ing fountains flow ; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every

The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks whatjoy

't were now stroke, pant “Ho !"

To go plump plunging down amid the assembly

of the whales, Leap ont, leap out, my masters ; leap out and and feel the churned sea round me boil beneath lay on load!

their scourging tails ! Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and

broad ;

rich array

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SAMUEL FERGUSON.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

LABOR SONG.

We women, when afflictions come,

We only suffer and are dumb.
FROM "THE BELL-FOUNDER."
Au ! little they know of true happiness, they

And when, the tempest passing by,
whom satiety fills,

He gleams out, sunlike, through our sky, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of We look up, and through black clouds riven the rankness that kills.

We recognize the smile of Heaven. Ah ! little they know of the blessedness toil. purchased slumber enjoys

Ours is no wisdom of the wise, Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, We have no deep philosophies ; taste of the sleep that destroys ;

Childlike we take both kiss and rod, Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sigh For he who loveth knoweth God.

for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like,

bosom and brain ; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er

TO LABOR IS TO PRAY. with its breath : Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, Pause not to dream of the future before us ; sorrow, and death !

Pause not to weep the wild cares that comeo'erus ;

Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, But blesséd that child of humanity, happiest man

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! among men, Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rud- Never the little seed stops in its growing ;

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; der or ploughshare or pen,

More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowLaboreth ever and ever with hope through the

ing, morning of life, Winning home and its darling divinities,— love

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. worshipped children and wife. Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly

“ Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; the sharp chisel rings,

“ Labor is worship !" the wild bee is ringing ; And the heart of the tviler has throbbings that stir Listen ! that eloquent whisper, upspringing, not the bosom of kings,

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great

heart. He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing

flower ; the strong world in the face.

From the small insect, the rich coral bower ;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from.his part.

of his race,

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

the mills have been closed for a considerable time.

Labor is life ! 't is the still water faileth;
A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ;

Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust assaileth ; ["Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.

The people, Labor is glory!- the flying cloud lightens ; who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women were over the bales and kissed them, and Only the waving wing changes and brightens, finally sang the Doxology over thein.“ Spectator of May 14, 1863.) | Idle hearts only the dark future frightens, “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,”

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them Praise him who sendeth joy and woe.

in tune! The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, O praise him, all that dies, and lives.

Labor is rest — from the sorrows that greet us ;

Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; He opens and he shuts his hand,

Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us ; But why we cannot understand :

Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Pours and dries up his mercies' Nood, Work, — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy And yet is still All-perfect Good.

pillow;

Work, – thou shalt ride o'er Care's coming billow; We fathom not the mighty plan,

Lie not down 'neath Woe's weeping willow, The mystery of Goil and man;

Work with a stout heart and resolute will !

'T was still a round of changing woe,

Woe never ending, still begun, That taught my bleeding heart to know

The poor man's labor 's never done.

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandnian reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current

leaping! How his strong arm in its stalworth pride sweep

ing, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ;

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 the pure heaven smiling beyond thee ! Rest not content in thy darkness,

- a clod ! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ! Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly! Labor ! - all labor is noble and holy ;

Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God.

Soon dies the faltering voice of fame;

The vow of love's too warm to last; And friendship, what a faithless dream !

And, wealth, how soon thy glare is past ! But sure one hope remains to save,

The longest course must soon be run,
And in the shelter of the grave
The poor man's labor must be done.

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN.

GOOD NIGHT.

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

Good night! To each weary, toil-worn wight, Now the day so sweetly closes, Every aching brow reposes Peacefully till morning light.

Good night!

THE POOR MAN'S LABOR.

Home to rest ! Close the eye and calm the breast; Stillness through the streets is stealing, And the watchman's horn is pealing, And the night calls softly, “Haste !

Home to rest !"

My mother sighed, the stream of pain

Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow ; My father prayed, nor prayed in vain ;

Sweet Mercy, cast a glance below. My husband dear," the sufferer cried,

My pains are o'er, behold your son." “Thank Heaven, sweet partner," he replied ;

“The poor boy's labor's then begun.” Alas! the hapless life she gave

By fate was doomed to cost her own ; For soon she found an early grave,

Nor stayed her partner long alone. They left their orphan here below,

A stranger wild beneath the sun, This lesson sad to learn from woe,

The poor man's labor 's never done.

Sweetly sleep! Eden's breezes round ye sweep. O'er the peace-forsaken lover Let the darling image hover, As he lies in transport deep.

Sweetly sleep!

So, good night! Slumber on till morning light; Slumber till another morrow Brings its stores of joy and sorrow; Fearless, in the Father's sight,

Slumber on. Good night.

No parent's hand, with pious care,

My childhood's devious steps to guide ; Or bid my venturous youth beware

The griefs that smote on every side.

KÖRNER, Translation of CHARLES T. BROOKS

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