3. They left the plowshare in the mold,
Their flocks and herds without a fold,
The sickle in the unshorn grain,

The corn half garnered, on the plain,
And mustered, in their simple dress,
For wrongs to seek a stern redress,

To right those wrongs, come weal, come woe,
To perish, or o'ercome their foe.

4. And where are ye, O fearless men?
O, where are ye to-day?

I call the hills reply again

That ye have passed away;

That on old Bunker's lonely height,

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground,
The grass grows green, the harvest bright,
Above each soldier's mound.

5. The bugle's wild and warlike blast
Shall muster them no more;
An army now might thunder past,
And they not heed its roar.

The starry flag, 'neath which they fought

In many a bloody day,

From their old graves shall rouse them not,
For they have passed away.

LXX. RAINY DAYS.

A. H. QUINT.

1. It is a rainy day. Sometimes I used to enjoy rainy days at home, and sometimes I did not. They were pleasant when one had a heap of odds and ends of work, and a rainy day was so good a time to finish them up. Or, one wanted a clean day for some special object, and had it then, beginning as soon as breakfast was over, hardly stopping for dinner, and not caring whether "the shades of night were falling fast" or slow. But sometimes the rainy days seemed dismal;

by reason, doubtless, of a moderate fit of the indigoes, warranted not to fade; or, possibly, sometimes from some depressing influence of the air.

2. But, on the whole, I used to like rainy days; not merely for the opportunity for work, but because it was pleasant to make a real visit on one's family, which is rather a rare event. I could both work and have the visit. Some people have an exclusive and forbidden study. I could not. If I locked the door, little feet soon pattered up, and little hands tried the handle. Suppose I said, "Busy now;" then I heard a good-natured, but self-satisfied and triumphant, voice, "Papa, it's ME!" Who could resist that? ME always, came in, and ME and papa had the best time imaginable, to the detriment-no-the decided improvement, of writing; and then ME would sit down quietly to play, and not disturb papa.

At

3. Children improve sermons. Besides, there are two ways of thinking and writing. Some people think as the horse-cars journey from Jamaica Plain to Boston. From the stables to the office at Eliot street is the Introduction. the office is "first." They jog along to Hyde's Corner, and the conductor sings out that name, which means "secondly." At Roxbury is the stopping for "thirdly." "Dover street" means "fourthly." And from Boylston street, various halts let out the different parts of the " Application," and the office opposite the Tremont House is "To conclude."

4. And all the way along you must keep on the iron ruts. Get off the track, and there is a terrible jolting over the rough pavement before you get on again. Indeed, on the track, every stoppage loses impetus; and a stop at rising ground is sometimes terrible. That's a good way for those that like it. But I would rather take a seat with some of my people who have fleet horses, as I used to do. You can then start when you please; you can stop of errands; you can take the smoothed roads and dodge the pavements; you can see a little speed on Tremont Road; and your friend drops you at just such part of the city as you wish.

5. However, different people may have different ways, to advantage. And my way was to have few secluded study hours, but to let all hours be study; and to have the freshness of life illumining the cold rows of books-which books

are capital things for a little girl to make houses of. I would as soon think of shutting sun and air out of my study as of keeping out my wife and child.

6. There is a salutary warning in the case of that good minister whose grandchild was always driven from his study. "Mother," said she, "will grandpa be in heaven?" "Why, certainly, my child.” "Then it's no use for me to go: as soon as he sees me, he'll say, 'What's that child here for? Go right out of my study!'" I fully believe that that divine's accurate "scheme" would have the same resemblance to the real living doctrines of the gospel, as the dry, pressed, squared, and labeled roots and herbs in an apothecary-shop do, to the blooming, fragrant, lovely plants out of which they were manufactured.

LXXI. THERE IS WORK FOR ALL.

ANONYMOUS.

1. There is work for all in this world of ours,-
Ho! idle dreamers in sunny bowers!
Ho! giddy triflers with time and health!
Ho! covetous hoarders of golden wealth!
There is work for each, there is work for all,
In the peasant's cot, in the noble's hall;

2. There is work for the wise and eloquent tongue,
There is work for the old, there is work for the young;
There is work that tasks manhood's strengthened zeal,
For his nation's welfare, his country's weal;
There is work that asks woman's gentle hand,
Her pitying eye, and her accents bland;
From the uttermost bounds of this earthly ball,
Is heard the loud cry, "There is work for all! ”

8. Think on the waste of human life,

In the deadly scenes of the battle-strife;
Gaze on the drunkard's wife and child,
List to his ravings, fierce and wild;

Look on the gibbet, with shuddering eye,
As the place where a fellow-man may die ;
Think on the felon in dungeon dim,

He is thy brother-go, work for him;

4. Look on the outcast from virtue's pale,
Pity thy sister, though erring and frail;
Visit the widow, the orphan, the old,

When the wind blows keen, and the nights are cold,
Think of the poor in their low estate,

The toiling poor who make nations great ;
Think of the sick as they helpless lie;
Think of the maniac's frenzied eye;

5. And remember the grave with its long repose,
Which "no work nor device nor wisdom knows ;"
Let the motive be pure, and the aim be right,
What thy hand finds to do, do with all thy might ;
For from every clime on this earthly ball

Is heard the loud cry, "There is work for all!"

LXXII. BEAUTIFUL SIGHTS AT SEA.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

1. The most beautiful thing I have seen at sea,-all the more so that I had never heard of it,—is the trail of a shoal of fish through the phosphorescent water. It is like a flight of silver rockets, or the streaming of northern lights through that silent nether heaven. I thought nothing could go beyond that rustling star-foam which was churned up by our ship's bows, or those eddies and disks of dreamy flame that rose and wandered out of sight behind us.

2. 'Twas fire our ship was plunging through,
Cold fire that o'er the quarter flew ;
And wandering moons of idle flame
Grew full and waned, and went and came,
Dappling with light the huge sea-snake
That slid behind us in the wake.

3. But there was something even more delicately rare in the apparition of the fish, as they turned up in gleaming furrows the latent moonshine which the ocean seemed to have hoarded against these vacant interlunar nights. In the Mediterranean one day, as we were lying becalmed, I observed the water freckled with dingy specks, which at last gathered to a pinkish scum on the surface. The sea had been so phosphorescent for some nights, that when the captain gave me my bath, by dowsing me with buckets from the house on deck, the spray flew off my head and shoulders in sparks.

4. It occurred to me that this dirty-looking scum might be the luminous matter, and I had a pailful dipped up to keep till after dark. When I went to look at it after nightfall, it seemed at first perfectly dead; but when I shook it, the whole broke out into what I can only liken to milky flames, whose lambent silence was strangely beautiful, and startled me almost as actual projection might an alchemist. I could not bear to be the death of so much beauty; so I poured it all overboard again.

5. Another sight worth taking a voyage for is that of the sails by moonlight. Our course was "south and by east,

half south," so that we seemed bound for the full moon as she rolled up over our wavering horizon. Then I used to go forward to the bowsprit and look back. Our ship was a clipper, with every rag set, stunsails, sky-scrapers, and all; nor was it easy to believe that such a wonder could be built of canvas as that white, many-storied pile of cloud that stooped over me, or drew back as we rose and fell with the waves.

6. Were you ever alone with the sun? You think it a very simple question; but never was, in the full sense of the word, till I was held up to him one cloudless day on the broad buckler of the ocean. I suppose one might have the same feeling in the desert. I remember getting something like it years ago, when I climbed alone to the top of a mountain, and lay face up on the hot gray moss, striving to get a notion of how an Arab might feel. It was my American commentary of the Koran, and not a bad one.

7. In a New England winter, too, when every thing is gagged with snow, as if some gigantic physical geographer