« VorigeDoorgaan »
DINAH MARIA MULOCK.
We women, when afflictions come,
We only suffer and are dumb.
And when, the tempest passing by,
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.
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, Who, with hammer or chisel or pencil, with rud. Never the little seed stops in its growing ;
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; 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 He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ;
heart. of his race, Who nerveth his arm for life's com bat, 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 ;
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 closert 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 wepe over the bales and kissed them, and Only the waving wing changes and brightens, knally 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, Opraise 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.
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 Goil and man;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will !
Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current
leaping ! How his strong arm in its stalworth pride sweep
ing, 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.
FRANCES S. OSGOOD.
Good night! 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.
Home to rest ! Close the eye and calm the breast; Stillness through the streets is stealing, And the watchman's horn is pealing, And the night calls softly, “Haste!
Home to rest !"
My mother sighed, the stream of pain
Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow ; My father prayed, nor prayed in vain ;
Sweet Mercy, cast a glance below. "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; 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.
To all thin heavenly Colors True 3. Hackening frost or crimson daw, And God us as we love thee, Thrice holy
Flower of Liberty
Then hail the banner of the fee,
Mion Wendell Homes
POEMS OF PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM.
BREATHES THERE THE MAN
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
found ?” Art thou a man ? - a patriot? - look around ; 0, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy liome !
BREATHIES 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.
Man, through all ages of revolving time, Unchanging man, in every varying clime, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside ; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
There is a land, of every land the pride,