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SELECTIONS PROM AMERICAN POETRY. LABOUR.

AUSE not to dream of the future before us;

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labour is worship !"—the robin is singing;
"Labour is worship !"—the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing,

Speaks to thy soul from out nature's heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing flower;
From the small insect the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

Labour is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth:

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labour is glory!—the flying cloud lightens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens:

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune. No. 119. i

Labour is rest—from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from sin-promptings that ever intreat us;

Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work—and pure slumbers shall wait on thv pillow;
Work—thou shalt ride over care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath wo's weeping willow:

Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;
Bravely fling ofl' the cold chain that hath bound thee;
Look on yon 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;
Labour!—all labour is noble and holy:

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. -Mas Frances Osgood,

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?

Thy neighbour? It is he whom thou

Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow

Thy soothing hand may press.

Thy neighbour 1 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door—
Go thou and succour him.

Thy neighbour? 'Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain—
Go thou and comfort him.

Thy neighbour? 'Tis the heart bereft

Of every earthly gem;
Widow and orphan, helpless left—

Go thou and shelter them.

Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,

Whose hopes are all beyond the grave—
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,

Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,
Thy brother, or thy son.

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THE SKIES.

Ay; gloriously thou standest there,
Beautiful, boundless firmament!

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air,
And round the horizon bent,

With-that bright vault and sapphire wall,

Dost overhang and circle all.

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees

Arise, and piles built up of old,
And hills, whose ancient summits freeze

In the fierce light and cold.
The eagle soars his utmost height;
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.

Thou hast thy frowns: with thee, on high,
The storm has made his airy seat;

Beyond thy soft blue curtain lie
His stores of hail and sleet:

Thence the consuming- lightnings break;

There the strong hurricanes awake.

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles—

Smiles sweeter than thy frowns are stern:

Earth sends, from all her thousand isles,
A song at their return;

The glory that comes down from thee

Bathes in deep joy the land and sea.

The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine,

The pomp that brings and shuts the day,

The clouds that round him change and shine,
The airs that fan his way.

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there

The meek moon walks the silent air.

The sunny Italy may boast

The beauteous tints that flush her skies;
And lovely, round the Grecian coast,

May thy blue pillars rise:
I only know how fair they stand
About my own beloved land.

And they are fair: a charm is theirs,

That earth—the proud, green earth—has not,

With all the hues, and forms, and airs
That haunt her sweetest spot.

We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere,

And read of Heaven's eternal year.

Oh when, amid the throng of men,
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth,

How willingly we turn us then
Away from, this cold earth,

And look into thy azure breast

For seats of innocence and rest! —bryant.

HYMN OF THE CITY.

Not in the solitude
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see

Only in savage wood
And sunny vale the present Deity;

Or only hear His voice
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.

Even here do I behold
Thy steps, Almighty!—here, amidst the crowd

Through the great city rolled,
With everlasting murmur deep and loud—

Choking the ways that wind
'Mongst the proud piles, the work of humankind.

Thy golden sunshine comes
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies,

And lights their inner homes;
For them thou flll'st with air the unbounded skies,

And givest them the stores
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores.

Thy spirit is around,
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along;

And this eternal sound—
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng—

Like the resounding sea,
Or like the rainy tempests, speaks of Thee.

And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,

Hushing its billowy breast,
The quiet of that moment too is thine;

It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps.
-ibid.

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A SIMILE.

Earth's children cleave to earth—her frail,

Decaying children dread decay:
Yon mist that rises from the vale,

And lessens in the morning ray—

look, how by mountain rivulet

It lingers as it upward creeps,
And clings to fern and copsewood set

Along the green and dewy steeps;

Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings

To precipices fringed with grass,
Dark maples, where the woodthrush sings,

And bowers of fragrant sassafras.

Yet, all in vain—it passes still

From hold to hold—it cannot stay;

And in the very beams that fill
The world with gladness, wastes away;

Till, parting from the mountain's brow,

It vanishes from human eye,
And that which sprung of earth is now

A portion of the glorious sky.

THE PRAIRIES.

These are the gardens of the desert, these

The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,

For which the speech of England has no name—

The Prairies. I behold them for the first,

And my heart swells while the dilated sight

Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch,

In airy undulations, far away,

As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,

Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,

And motionless for ever. Motionless ?—

No—they are all unchained again. The clouds

Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;

Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase

The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!

Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,

And pass the prairie hawk, that, poised on high,

Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not—ye have played

Among the palms of Mexico and vines

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