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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 stormy 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.

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ANONYMOUS

Still, still, whene'er the battle word | For a heart of oak is hangingon 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,

road ; 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, Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still

remains, white heat now : 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

nothing, — here am I !" sable mound;

the Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths

keep time, ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands?

od Your blows make music sweeter far than any

steeple's chime ! only bare ;

v But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let Some rest upon their sledges here, some work

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, — 0 Vulcan, Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery what a glow !

rich array ”T is 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;

ich A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high

was cast. and low ;

A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst 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

81 the deep green sea! cinders strew

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

sights as thou ? ing fountains flow ;

The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks what joy And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every

't were now stroke, pant “Ho !"

To go plump plunging down amid the assembly

of the wliales, 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;

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

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LABOR SONG.

We women, when afflictions come,

We only suffer and are dumb.
FROM "THE BELL-FOUNDER." i
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 toilpurchased 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.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK. 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 come o'erus ;

Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, But blesséd that child of humanity, happiest man. Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! among men,

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rud- Never

uu Never the little seed stops in its growing ; der or ploughshare or pen,

| More and more richly the rose heart keeps glow. Laboreth ever and ever with hope through the

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

ties. - 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 toiler has throbbings that stir

Listen ! that eloquent whisper, upspringing, not the bosom of kings, –

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king

heart.

8 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; of his race, Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks

From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing

Oks the strong world in the face.

flower ; DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

From the small insect, the rich coral bower ;

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

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 milks have been closed for a considerable time. The people,

Labor is glory!- the flying cloud lightens ; who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and Enally sang the Doxology over them." --Spectator of May 14, 1863-) “ PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow,"|

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them

Play the sweet keys, wouldst to 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' food,

Work, - and pure slumbers shall wait on thy And yet is still All-perfect Good.

pillow ;

Work,—thou shaltrideo'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 !

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping,' 'Twas still a round of changing woe, How through his veins goes the life-current Woe never ending, still begun, leaping!

That taught my bleeding heart to know How his strong arm in its stalworth pride sweep The poor man's labor 's never done.

ing, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Soon dies the faltering voice of fame; Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl groweth; The vow of love's too warm to last; Rich the queen's robe from the cocoon floweth; And friendship, what a faithless dream! From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; And, wealth, how soon thy glare is past ! Temple and statue the marble block hides. But sure one hope remains to save, —

The longest course must soon be run, Droop not ! though shame, sin, and anguish are

And in the shelter of the grave round thee!

The poor man's labor must be done. Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 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!

GOOD NIGHT.
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly!
Labor ! - all labor is noble and holy;

Good night!
Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God.

To each weary, toil-worn wight,
Now the day so sweetly closes,
Every aching brow reposes

Peacefully till morning light.
THE POOR MAN'S LABOR.

Good night!

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

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