sorrow, and death!

Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where

the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people. who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them." --Spectator of May 14, 1863.

"PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow,"
Praise him who sendeth joy and woe.
The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives,
O praise him, all that dies, and lives.

He opens and he shuts his hand,
But why we cannot understand:
Pours and dries up his mercies' flood,
And yet is still All-perfect Good.

We fathom not the mighty plan,
The mystery of God and man ;

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

How his strong arm in its stalworth pride sweeping,

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.

66

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.

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.

BREATHES THERE THE MAN BREATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown; And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

MY COUNTRY.

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race,
The heritage of nature's noblest grace,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life: