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AS SUNG BY THE HUTCHINSONS.

THE GOOD OLD PLOUGH.

'Neath yon lowly roof he lies,
The husbandman, with sleep-sealed eyes :

He dreams of crowded barns, and round
Let them sing who may of the battle fray,

The yard he hears the flail resound ;
And the deeds that have long since past;

0, may no hurricane destroy
Let them chant in praise of the tar whose days,

His visionary views of joy !

God of the winds ! O, hear his humble prayer,
Are spent on the ocean vast.
I would render to these all the worship you please, And while the Moon of Harvest shines, thy
I woull honor them even now;

blustering whirlwind spare !
But I'd give far more from my heart's full store

To the cause of the Good Old Plough.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

THE PLOUGHMAN.

Let them laud the notes that in music float

Through the bright and glittering hall ;
While the amorous twirl of the hair's bright curl

Round the shoulder of beauty fall.
But dearer to me is the song from the tree,

And the rich and blossoming bough;
0, these are the sweets which the rustic greets

As he follows the Good Old Plough!

Clear the brown path to meet his coulter's gleam!
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!

Full many there be that daily we see,

With a selfish and hollow pride,
Who the ploughman's lot, in his humble cot,

With a scornful look deride;
But I'd rather take, aye, a hearty shake

From his hand than to wealth I'd bow;
For the honest grasp of his hand's rough clasp,

Has stood by the Good Old Plough.

First in the field before the reddening sun.
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod :
Still where he treads the stubborn clods diviile,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves ;
Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain,
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined way ;
At every turn the loosening chains resound,
Theswinging ploughshare circlesglistening round,
Till the wiile field one billowy waste appears,
And wcaried hands unbind the panting steers.

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These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings;
This is the page whose letters shall be seen,
Changed by the sun to words of living green ;
This is the scholar whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men ,
These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toit
Shows on his deed, - the charter of the soil !
O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest,
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime,
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of Time!
Westain thy flowers, — they blossom o'erthe dead;
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread ;
O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn,
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn;
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.
Yet, О our Mother, while uncounted charms
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms,
Let not our virtues in thy love decay,
And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away

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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 ;
Rowed 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 sanie 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 year; 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 lies ; There his first thoughts tɔ 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 well 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 succeede 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 showersand 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 brecze 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 ; 1 The rich manure that drenching winter made,

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

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 morningsmiles; 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 scat, Secured by this, the good ship braves
With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet. The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Where shadowing clms 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 bencath the solemn deep?
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid ; By Afric's pestilential shore ;
With joy she views her plenteous reeking storc, 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;

at a

rich array

Still, still, whene'er the battle word For a heart of oak is hangingon every blow, I boule, 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 ANONYMOUS.

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

remains, white heat now :

And not an inch to flinch hc deigns save when The billows ceased, the flames decreased ; though

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

keep time, ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands Your blows make music sweeter far than any

steeple's chime ! only bare ; 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 throc;

will soon be sped ; It rises, roars, rends all outright, -0 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 higli sun sces 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 hearthi, 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 foc ;

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

at last. bang, bang, the sledges go;

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

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 whales, Lenp out, leap out, my masters; leap out and And feel the churned sca 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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FROM

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

LABOR SONG.

We women, when afflictions come,

We only suffer and are dumb. 'THE BELL-FOUNDER.” An ! 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, cat 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 hardl 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 ito'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 blessed that child of humanity, happiest man

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! among men,

Never the occan wave falters in flowing; Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rud. Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 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 toiler 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 of his race,

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.

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

Labor is life! 't is the still water faileth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ;
A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.

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 mills have been closed for a considerable time. The

people. Labor is glory!- the flying cloud lightens ; cotton : the women wept 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 Gol and man;

Work with a stout heart and resolute will !

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