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VI.

LABOR AND REST.

HACK AND HEW.

HACK and Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now:
One at his right hand, one at his left,
To obey as he taught them how.

And Hack was blind, and Hew was dumb,
But both had the wild, wild heart;
And God's calm will was their burning will,
And the gist of their toil was art.

They made the moon and the belted stars,
They set the sun to ride;

They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea,
The wind and the purple tide.

Both flower and beast beneath their hands
To beauty and speed outgrew,-

The furious, fumbling hand of Hack,
And the glorying hand of Hew.

Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man,
And painted him rosy brown;

And God himself blew hard in his eyes:

"Let them burn till they smoulder down!"

And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought

Hew,

"We'll rest, for our toil is done."

But"Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as God

Shall serve me anew as man,

Till I compass the dream that is in my heart,
And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will,
While the mounting day comes on,

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,-
The faltering, restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.

THE AXE.

BLISS CARMAN.

FROM

"MALCOLM'S KATIE."

HIGH grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky,
And all was silent in the wilderness ;

In trance of stillness Nature heard her God
Rebuilding her spent fires, and veiled her face
While the Great Worker brooded o'er His work.

"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree! What doth thy bold voice promise me?"

"I promise thee all joyous things

That furnish forth the lives of kings!

"For every silver ringing blow,

Cities and palaces shall grow!"

"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree! Tell wider prophecies to me."

"When rust hath gnawed me deep and red, A nation strong shall lift his head.

"His crown the very Heavens shall smite, Eons shall build him in his might!"

"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree; Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!"

Max smote the snow-weighed tree, and lightly laughed.

"See, friend," he cried to one that looked and

smiled,

"My axe and I-we do immortal tasks—

We build up nations-this my axe and I!"

ISABELLA VALANCEY CRAWFORD.

LABOR.

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! "T is 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 frightens:

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in
tune!

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty 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 ;

1

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!

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES.

WE plough and sow-we 're so very, very low
That we delve in the dirty clay,

Till we bless the plain with the golden grain,
And the vale with the fragrant hay.

Our place we know-we 're so very low,
'Tis down at the landlord's feet:

We 're not too low the bread to grow,
But too low the bread to eat.

Down, down we go-we 're so very, very low--
To the hell of the deep-sunk mines,

But we gather the proudest gems that glow
When the crown of a despot shines.

And whenever he lacks, upon our backs
Fresh loads he deigns to lay:

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