Work away

For the Father's eye is on us,

Never off us, still upon us,

Night and Day!

WORK AND PRAY!

Pray and Work will be completer;
Work and Prayer will be the sweeter;
Love! and Prayer and Work the fleeter
Will ascend upon their way!

Fear not lest the busy finger

Weave a net the soul to stay;
Give her wings—she will not linger;
Soaring to the source of day;
Cleaving clouds that still divide us
From the azure depths of rest,
She will come again! beside us,
With the sunshine on her breast,
Sit, and sing to us, while quickest
On their task the fingers move,
While the outward din wars thickest,
Songs that she hath learn'd above.

Live in Future as in Present;
Work for both while yet the day
Is our own! for Lord and Peasant,
Long and bright as summer's day,
Cometh, yet more sure, more pleasant,
Cometh soon our Holiday;

Work away!

-Household Words, 1851.

SUNSHINE AND SHOWER.

THE heart that is sinking in sorrow
May mourn, but need never despair;
The night may be dark, but to-morrow
The sky may be smiling and fair.
As golden day follows gray morning,
As summer heat follows the rain,
As shadow makes light more adorning,
So pleasure is heighten'd by pain.

Our life is a state of progression,

Though weary and rough be the way ; And ere we get good in possession, Hard labour's the price we must pay. Then pause not though dark and alarming The sky in the distance may lower; Press on; there be regions more charming, The sunshine comes after the shower.

Then list not your woe-begone lover,
And heed not your woe-boding friend;

The sooner your sorrows are over,

The sooner your pleasures will end. When joy thus with sorrow is blended,

Oh, why should life's cup ever cloy; Or why should we wish our woes ended, When Sorrow's the sister of Joy!

JAMES BALLANTINE, 1808

THE HERITAGE.

THE rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old:

A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits cares;

The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn : A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart, he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair:

A heritage, it seems to me,

One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;

King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art:

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoy'd with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-won merit,
Content that from employment springs,
A heart that in his labour sings:

A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learn'd of being poor,
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it,

A fellow-feeling that is sure

To make the outcast bless his door:

A heritage, it seems to me,

A king might wish to hold in fee.

O rich man's son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,

But only whiten, soft white hands,-
This is the best crop from thy lands:
A heritage, it seems to be,

Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O poor man's son! scorn not thy state;

There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;

Toil only gives the soul to shine,

And makes rest fragrant and benign :
A heritage, it seems to me,

Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well-fill'd past:

A heritage, it seems to me,

Well worth a life to hold in fee.

-American.

J. R. LOWELL, 1819

PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY.

FOR the highborn and the low

There's a joy that all may know,

A source of bliss exhaustless, undefiled;
Though simple it may seem,

Believe me 'tis no dream,

But lessons life has taught me from a child:

It is, to act your part

With purity of heart;