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 Settler. The paths which wound 'mid gorgeous trees, Through those sun-hiding bowers, 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, Which was the living chronicle Of deeds that wrought the change. The violet sprung at spring's first tinge, His shout and whistle broke the air, His garden spade, or drove his share -Alfred B. Street. B The Angler. UT look! o'er the fall see the angler stand, The fly at the end of his gossamer line It touches the pool beyond the froth. Swift spins the reel; with easy slip CLE The Ploughman. LEAR the brown path to meet his coulter's Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team, This is the page whose letters shall be seen O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast No, by these hills whose banners now displayed And the mower now Pauses and wipes his beaded brow. 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, A WEAVER sat by the side of his loom And a thread that would last till the hour of doom His warp had been by the angels spun, Like threads which the morning upraids from the sun, All fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours, But something there came slow stealing by, And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly; And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain 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 weaver fain would have flung it aside, So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied, And as he wove, and weeping still wove, And with glowing words he to win him strove, He upward turned his eye to heaven, Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven, Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, And gathering close the folds of his shroud, And after, I saw, in a robe of light, The weaver in the sky; The angels' wings were not more bright, And I saw 'mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours, And wherever a tear had fallen down And jewels befitting a monarch's crown And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky And then I prayed: "When my last work is done, Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one -Anonymous. The Village Blacksmith. NDER a spreading chestnut tree UN The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; His hair is crisp and black and long ; His brow is wet with honest sweat- And looks the whole world in the face, Week in, week out, from morn till night, And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, He goes on Sunday to the church, 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. |