And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and brown; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning.

Three corpses lay on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down. And the women are watching and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weepAnd the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleepAnd good-by to the bar and its moaning. -Charles Kingsley.

The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees,
The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,
The winds that swelled their harmonies

Through those sun-hiding bowers,
The temple vast, the green arcade,
The nesting vale, the grassy glade,
Dark cave, and swampy lair;
These scenes and sounds majestic made
His world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorned a pleasant spot,

'Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, And herbs and plants the woods knew not Throve in the sun and rain.

The smoke-wreath curling o'er the deal,
The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,

Which was the living chronicle

Of deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at spring's first tinge,
The rose of summer spread its glow,
The maize hung out its autumn fringe,
Rude winter brought his snow;
And still the lone one labored there,

His shout and whistle broke the air,
As cheerily he plied

His garden spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.

-Alfred B. Street.

B

UT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand,
Swinging his rod with skillful hand;

The fly at the end of his gossamer line
Swims through the sun like a summer moth,
Till, dropt with a careful precision fine,

It touches the pool beyond the froth.
A-sudden, the speckled hawk of the brook
Darts from his covert and seizes the hook.

Swift spins the reel; with easy slip
The line pays out, and the rod, like a whip,
Lithe and arrowy, tapering, slim,

CLE

LEAR the brown path to meet his coulter's
gleam!

Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil's bright dewdrops on his sun burnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plow!
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 divide,
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,
The swinging plowshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.
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-toil
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!
We stain thy flowers-they blossom o'er the 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 tassel'd corn;
Our maddening conflicts scar thy fairest plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain,
Yet, O 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.

No, by these hills whose banners now displayed
In blazing cohorts autumn has arrayed;

And the mower now

Pauses and wipes his beaded brow.
A moment he scans the fleckless sky,
A moment, the fish-hawk soaring high,
And watches the swallows dip and dive
Anear and far;

They whisk and glimmer, and chatter and strive;

What do they gossip together?

Cunning fellows they are

Wise prophets to hive;

"Higher or lower they circle and skim, Fair or foul to-morrow's hay weather!" Tallest primroses or loftiest daisies

Not a steel-blue feather

Of slim wing grazes!

"Fear not! fear not!" cry the swallows. Each mower tightens his snath ring's wedge,

And his finger daintily follows

The long blade's tickle-edge;

Softly the whetstone's last touches ring,
Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling!

A

WEAVER sat by the side of his loom
A-flinging the shuttle fast,

And a thread that would last till the hour of doom
Was added at every cast.

His warp had been by the angels spun,
And his weft was bright and new,

Like threads which the morning upraids from the sun,
All jeweled over with dew.

All fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich soft web were bedded;

And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours,
Nor yet were Time's feet leaded.

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fel!;

And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly;
For thought has a wearisome spell.

And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain
Was of a melancholy gray,

And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain
Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,

Though the fabric all was gray;

And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark, and still darker, and darker grew

Each newly woven thread,

And some were of a death mocking hue,

And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in,

Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears,
And the web was broken, and poor and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;

So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving those life-cords in.

And as he wove, and weeping still wove,
A tempter stole him nigh;

And with glowing words he to win him strove,
But the weaver turned his eye-

He upward turned his eye to heaven,
And still wove on-on-on!

Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head,

And gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.

And after, I saw, in a robe of light,

The weaver in the sky;

The angels' wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale, it nigh.

And I saw 'mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers
That beneath his touch had sprung,

More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.

And wherever a tear had fallen down
Gleamed out a diamond rare,

And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were footprints left by care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh
Was left a rich perfume,

And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky
Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom.

And then I prayed: "When my last work is done,
And the silver cord is riven,

Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one
That I bear with me to heaven."

-Anonymous.

NDER a spreading chestnut tree

UN

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp and black and long ;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat-
He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow,
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.