glade;

His simple errand done, he homeward hies;

There his first thoughts to Nature's charms in- Another instantly his place supplies.

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

Beneath the hammer's potent blows?
Clink, clank! — we forge the giant chain,
Which bears the gallant vessel's strain
Midst stormy winds and adverse tides;
Secured by this, the good ship braves
The rocky roadstead, and the waves
Which thunder on her sides.

A promised nutriment for autumn's seed.
Forth comes the maid, and like the morning smiles;
The mistress too, and followed close by Giles.
A friendly tripod forms their humble seat,
With pails bright scoured and delicately sweet.
Where shadowing elms obstruct the morning ray
Begins the work, begins the simple lay;
The full-charged udder yields its willing stream
While Mary sings some lover's amorous dream;
And crouching Giles beneath a neighboring tree
Tugs o'er his pail, and chants with equal glee;
Whose hat with battered brim, of nap so bare,
From the cow's side purloins a coat of hair, --
A mottled ensign of his harmless trade,
An unambitious, peaceable cockade.
As unambitious, too, that cheerful aid
The mistress yields beside her rosy maid;
With joy she views her plenteous reeking store,
And bears a brimmer to the dairy door.
Her cows dismissed, the luscious mead to roam,
Till eve again recall them loaded home.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

|

Anxious no more, the merchant sees
The mist drive dark before the breeze,
The storm-cloud on the hill;
Calmly he rests, though far away,
In boisterous climes, his vessel lay, -
Reliant on our skill.

Say on what sands these links shall sleep,
Fathoms beneath the solemn deep?
By Afric's pestilential shore;
By many an iceberg, lone and hoar;
By many a balmy western isle,
Basking in spring's perpetual smile;
By stormy Labrador.

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad;

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,

The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal crafts

men we;

Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling red!

Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped;

Our

anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array

For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;

Our

anchor soon must change the lay of merry

craftsmen here,

For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and
the sighing seaman's cheer;

| When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far
from love and home,
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the

ocean foam.

The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below,

And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at
every throe;

It rises, roars, rends all outright, -O Vulcan,
what a glow!
"Tis blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the
high sun shines not so!

The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery
fearful show, -
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the
ruddy, lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men
before the foe;

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow

Sinks on the anvil, — all about the faces fiery
grow,
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out":
bang, bang, the sledges go;
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high
and low;

In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down
at last.

A

shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat was cast.

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

A trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea!

O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?

The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 't were now

To go plump plunging down amid the assembly
of the whales,
And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath
their scourging tails!

SAMUEL FERGUSON

Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er

with its breath:

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,

Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rudder or ploughshare or pen,

Laboreth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,

Winning home and its darling divinities,-loveworshipped children and wife.

Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings,

And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings,

He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king

of his race,

Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face.

DENIS FLORENCE MAC-CARTHY.

A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY.

["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.

TO LABOR IS TO PRAY.

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'er us;
Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus,

"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;

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,
We have no deep philosophies;
Childlike we take both kiss and rod,
For he who loveth knoweth God.
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.