THE LABOURER.

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes again,

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails? Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear A gentle murmur of the morning gales,

That

sweep

the ambrosial groves of that bright shore, And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear, And voices of the loved ones gone before,

More musical in that celestial air?

THE LABOURER.

BY WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

STAND up-erect! Thou hast the form
And likeness of thy God-who more?

A soul as dauntless mid the storm
Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man

As moves the human mass among;

As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,

As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy ?-the high

In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Nay! nurse not such belief.

97

98

THE LABOURER.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee? A feather, which thou mightest cast

Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No:-uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
For ever, till thus check'd;

These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:

Thy labour and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great! what better they than thou?

As theirs, is not thy will as free?

Has GOD with equal favours thee
Neglected to endow ?

True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust!
Nor place uncertain as the wind!

But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust

Of both a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,

True faith, and holy trust in God,

Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!

THE DESERTED WIFE.

BY JAMES G. PERCIVAL.

He comes not-I have watch'd the moon go down,
But yet he comes not. Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town,
Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep;
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.
O! how I love a mother's watch to keep,

Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep.
I had a husband once, who loved me-now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,
As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;
But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours,
When I could hang for ever on his eye,
And time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers,
I loved him then-he loyed me too. My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness, and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then

I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been!

THE BURIAL-PLACE AT LAUREL HILL.

BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK.

HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie,

Life's lingering languors o'er, its labours done; Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky, Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.

Here the long concourse from the murmuring town,
With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in;
To lay the loved in tranquil silence down,
No more to suffer, and no more to sin.

And in this hallow'd spot, where Nature showers Her summer smiles from fair and stainless skies, Affection's hand may strew her dewy flowers,

Whose fragrant incense from the grave shall rise.

And here the impressive stone, engraved with words
Which grief sententious gives to marble pale,
Shall teach the heart; while waters, leaves, and birds
Make cheerful music in the passing gale.

Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour
On scented airs the unavailing sigh-
While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore,
And landscapes blooming-that the loved must die?

There is an emblem in this peaceful scene:
Soon rainbow colours on the woods will fall;
And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green,
As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round,

Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand;
While the chain'd streams are silent as the ground,
As Death had numb'd them with his icy hand.

Yet when the warm, soft winds shall rise in spring,
Like struggling daybeams o'er a blasted heath,
The bird return'd shall poise her golden wing,
And liberal Nature break the spell of Death.

So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end,
The blessed dead to endless youth shall rise;
And hear th' archangel's thrilling summons blend
Its tone with anthems from the upper skies.

There shall the good of earth be found at last,
Where dazzling streams and vernal fields expand;
Where Love her crown attains-her trials past—
And, fill'd with rapture, hails the "better land!"

101

THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS.

BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.

Two swallows, having flown into church during divine service, were apostrophized in the following stanzas.

GAY, guiltless pair,

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?

Can your pure spirits fear

The God ye never could offend?