For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast 'by the board; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains, But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high, Then moves his head, as though he said, “Fear nothing, - here am I !" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime! But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, LABOR SONG. FROM "THE BELL-FOUNder." AH little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. Ah little they know of the blessedness toilpurchased slumber enjoys Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys; Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: We women, when afflictions come, And when, the tempest passing by, Ours is no wisdom of the wise, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. TO LABOR IS TO PRAY. Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, PAUSE not to dream of the future before us; sorrow, and death! A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY. Labor is life! 't is the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust assaileth; 'Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people. Labor is glory! - the flying cloud lightens ; who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and Only the waving wing changes and brightens, finally sang the Doxology over them." — Spectator of May 14, 1863-] | Idle hearts only the dark future frightens, Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune ! "PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow," Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us; Work, -thou shalt ride o'er Care's coming billow; 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 stalworth 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 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 the 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 deed be thy prayer to thy God. FRANCES S. OSGOOD. THE POOR MAN'S LABOR. My mother sighed, the stream of pain 66 'My pains are o'er, behold your son.' "Thank Heaven, sweet partner," he replied; "The poor boy's labor's then begun." Alas! the hapless life she gave By fate was doomed to cost her own; A stranger wild beneath the sun, The poor man's labor's never done. No parent's hand, with pious care, |