board, drinking nothing but water on shore-without shelter, without means-surrounded by hostile tribes.

Shut now the volume of history, and tell me, on any principle of human probability, what shall be the fate of this handful of adventurers? Tell me, man of military science, in how many months were they all swept off by the thirty savage tribes enumerated within the early limits of New England? Tell me, politician, how long did this shadow of a colony, on which your conventions and treaties had not smiled, languish on the distant coast?

Student of history, compare for me the baffled projects, the deserted settlements, the abandoned adventures of other times, and find the parallel of this. Was it the winter's storm beating upon the houseless heads of women and children; was it hard labor and spare meals; was it disease; was it the tomahawk; was it the deep malady of a blighted hope, a ruined enterprise and a broken heart, aching in its last moments at the recollection of the loved and left beyond the sea; was it some or all of these united that hurried this forsaken company to their melancholy fate?

And is it possible that neither of these causes, that not all combined were able to blast this bud of hope? Is it possible that from a beginning so feeble, so frail, so worthy, not so much of admiration as of pity, there has gone forth a progress so steady, a growth so wonderful, a reality so important, a promise, yet to be fulfilled, so glorious?

THE BRICKLAYERS.

G. H. BARNES.

[Speak these lines with energy and vim.]

"Ho, to the top of the towering wall!”
'Tis the master mason's rallying call

To the scaffolding boys. Now merrily climb;
'Tis seven o'clock by the town bell's chime!
Bring to your work good muscle and brawn,
And a keen, quick eye where the line is drawn-

Out with your saw-tempered blades of steel!
Smoother than glass from point to heel;
Now, steady and clear, from turret and port,
Ring out your challenge: Mort-oh, mort!"
Clink! clink! trowel and brick!

Music with labor and art combine;
Brick upon brick, lay them up quick;
But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line

Cheery as crickets all the day long,
Lightening labor with laugh and song;
Busy as bees upon angles and pier,
Piling the red blocks tier upon tier;

Climbing and climbing still nearer the sun;

Prouder than kings of the work they have done! Upward and upward the bricklayers go,

Till men are but children and pigmies below; While the master's order falls ringing and short To the staggering carrier, “Mort—oh, mort!” Clink! clink! trowel and brick!

Music with labor and art combine; Brick upon brick, lay them up quick;

But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line!

Who are the peers of the best in the land-
Worthy 'neath arches of honor to stand?
They of the brick-reddened, mortar-stained palms,
With shoulders of giants and sinewy arms—
Builders of cities and builders of homes-
Propping the sky up with spires and domes;
Writing thereon, with their trowel and lime,
Legends of toil for the eyes of Time!
So that the ages may read, as they run,
11 that their magical might has done!
So clink! clink! trowel and brick!

Work by the master's word and sign
Brick upon brick, lay them them up quick'

But lay to the line, boys; lay to the line!"

THE INDEPENDENT FARMER.

W. W. FOSDICK.

Let sailors sing the windy deep;
Let soldiers praise their armor;
But in my heart this toast I'll keep—
"The Independent Farmer."
When first the rose, in robe of green,
Unfolds its crimson lining,

And round his cottage porch is seen
The honeysuckle twining;

When banks of bloom their sweetness yield
To bees that gather honey,

He drives his team across the field

Where skies are soft and sunny.

The blackbird clucks behind his plough,
The quail pipes loud and clearly:
Yon orchard hides behind its bough
The home he loves so dearly;

The gray old barn, whose doors enfold
His ample store in measure,
More rich than heaps of hoarded gold,
A precious, blessed treasure;
But yonder in the porch there stands
His wife, the lovely charmer,
The sweetest rose on all his lands-
The Independent Farmer.

To him the spring comes dancing gay,
To him the summer blushes;
The autumn smiles with mellow ray;
His sleep old winter hushes.

He cares not how the world may move,
No doubt or fears confound him;

His little flock are link'd in love,

And household angels round him;

He trusts in God and loves his wife,

Nor grief nor ill may harm her;
He's nature's nobleman in life-
The Independent Farmer.

TO LABOR IS TO PRAY.

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

[Boldly and spiritedly.]

Pause 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.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

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

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part

Labor 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.
Labor is glory! the flying cloud lightens;

Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frigntens;

Play the sweet keys, would'st thou keep them in tune!

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all pretty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin promptings, that ever entreat us,

Rest from world-sirens, that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!
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 stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides!
Labor is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail 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 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; Labor-all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God!

LITTLE JERRY, THE MILLER.

J. G. SAXE.

[Tenderly and expressively.]

Beneath the hill you may see the mill
Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;
The wheel is dripping and clattering still,
But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone!