For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; 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 stove at the chains, But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high, Then moves his head, as though he said, “Fear nothing,- here am I !" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime! But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, LABOR SONG. FROM "THE BELL-FOUNDER.' A little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. Ah little they know of the blessedness toilpurchased slumber enjoys Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys; Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain ; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb. And when, the tempest passing by, He gleams out, sunlike, through our sky, We look up, and through black clouds riven We recognize the smile of Heaven. Ours is no wisdom of the wise, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. TO LABOR IS TO PRAY. Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, PAUSE not to dream of the future before us ; sorrow, and death! Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mulls 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 He opens and he shuts his hand, Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'erus; Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. “Labor is worship!" the robin is singing ; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing; Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing, Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great 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. '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; A stranger wild beneath the sun, The poor man's labor 's never done. No parent's hand, with pious care, Thy sacul leaves, Jan Fardons flower, Shall ever holy Flower of Liberty. Then hail the banner of the feel, Olion Wendell Hommes |