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 around 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!
"POOR FOOL!" the base and soulless worldling cries, "To waste his strength for nought,-to blanch his cheek, And bring pale Death upon him in his prime.
pleasure give his days,
and live while live he might?"
To breathe the vital air,
Consume the fruits of earth, and doze away
Existence? Never! this is living death,-
'Tis brutish life,-base grovelling. E'en the brutes
Of nobler nature, live not lives like this.
Shall man, then, formed to be creation's lord,
Stamped with the impress of Divinity, and sealed
With God's own signet, sink below the brute?
Forbid it, Heaven! it cannot, must not be!
Oh! when the mighty GOD from nothing brought
This universe, when at His word the light.
the sun was set in heaven,
And earth was clothed in beauty; when the last,
The noble work of all, from dust He framed
Our bodies in His image,—when he placed
Within its temple-shrine of clay, the soul,-
The immortal soul,-infused by His own truth,
Did He not show, 'tis this which gives to man
His high prerogative? Why then declare
That he who thinks less of his worthless frame,
And lives a spirit, even in this world,
Lives not as well,-lives not as long, as he
Who drags out years of life, without one thought,— One hope, one wish beyond the present hour?
How shall we measure life? Not by the years,—
The months, the days,-the moments that we pass
On earth. By him whose soul is raised above
Base worldly things,-whose heart is fixed in heaven-
His life is measured by that soul's advance,-
Its cleansing from pollution and from sin,-
The enlargement of its powers,-the expanded field
Wherein it ranges,-till it glows and burns
With holy joys,—with high and heavenly hopes.
When in the silent night, all earth lies hushed
In slumber, when the glorious stars shine out,
Each star a sun,—each sun a central light
Of some fair system, ever wheeling on
In one unbroken round,-and that again
Revolving round another sun,-while all
Suns, stars, and systems, proudly roll along,
In one majestic, ever-onward course,
In space uncircumscribed and limitless,—
Oh! think you then the undebased soul
Can calmly give itself to sleep,-to rest?
No! in the solemn stillness of the night,
It soars from earth,-it dwells in angels' homes,—
It hears the burning song,-the glowing chant,
That fills the sky-girt vaults of heaven with joy!
It pants, it sighs, to wing its flight from earth,
To join the heavenly choirs, and be with God.
And it is joy to muse the written page,
Whereon are stamped the gushings of the soul
Of genius ;-where, in never-dying light,
It glows and flashes as the lightning's glare;
Or where it burns with ray more mild,―more sure,
And wins the soul, that half would turn away
From its more brilliant flashings. These are hours
Of holy joy,-of bliss, so pure, that earth
May hardly claim it. Let his lamp grow dim,
And flicker to extinction; let his cheek
Be pale as sculptured marble,-and his eye
Lose its bright lustre,-till his shrouded frame
Is laid in dust. Himself can never die!
years, 'tis true, are few, his life is long; For he has gathered many a precious gem; Enraptured, he has dwelt where master minds
Have poured their own deep musings,—and his heart
Has glowed with love to Him who framed us thus,—
Who placed within this worthless tegument
The spark of pure Divinity, which shines
With light unceasing.
Long to the dull and loathsome epicures,—
Long to the slothful man's-the grovelling herds
Who scarcely know they have a soul within,-
Long to all those who, creeping on to death,
Meet in the grave, the earth-worm's banquet-hall,—
And leave behind no monuments for good.
WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good night and be kissed:
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace!
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of my childhood, too lovely to last:
Of love that my heart will remember
When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin;
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
Oh! my heart grows as weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;
Oh! there is nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child.
They are idols of hearts and of households:
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still beams in their eyes.
Oh! those truants from home and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild,
And I know how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a child.
I ask not a life for the dear ones,
All radiant, as others have done,
But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun :
I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;
Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself
The twig is so easily bended,
I have banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught me the goodness of God;
My heart is a dungeon of darkness,
Where I shut them from breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old home in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how shall I sigh for the dear ones
That meet me each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The
group on the green,
and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and at eve,
Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tramp of their delicate feet. When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And death says, "The school is dismissed!"
May the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night, and be kissed!
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